


Hope for the Best, Plan for the Worst

by Abracabadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Mild Language, Surely you can't be Sirius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 04:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abracabadger/pseuds/Abracabadger
Summary: Holed up at 12 Grimmauld Place and facing charges of underage and illegal magic use, it's fair to say that Harry Potter's summer holidays aren't going well. The date of his disciplinary hearing is drawing nearer and the pressure on him is growing, but he discovers that he has one ally who's thinking clearly and knows that an ounce of preparation may make all the difference.Which is just as well, because the rest of the world appears to have lost its collective mind!Imported from SIYE.Basically, it is written backwards from the courtroom scene later on, and suffers in the process with a bit in the middle that doesn't quite fit. Still good for a few giggles, I hope!





	1. Having a Grim Old Time

=====// \\\=====

  
  
To say things were tense in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place would be an understatement. Harry Potter slumped moodily in his chair at the foot of the scarred, greying kitchen table, patiently ignoring his best friends, Ron and Hermione, as they bickered — yet again — over Kreacher the house elf, who Ron swore had tried to curse Hermione earlier in the drawing room when her back was turned.  
  
Harry's Godfather, Sirius, was in the basement with Ron's mother, attacking an especially virulent Bundimun which had infested the timbers of the old house. The Bundimun, a greenish, acid-secreting fungus which gave off a melancholic vapour to encourage home-owners to abandon a property to its depredations, was part of the reason for the house's dank and forbidding nature. Other nasty household pests were drawn to the Bundimun's vapours and had reproduced rampantly in the empty house, which prevented Harry from slipping away and finding a quiet corner to himself. Despite the hours they had spent disinfecting the house from the more minor pests, the Bundimun was only susceptible to magic, which precluded the youngsters for helping as-  
  
Well, Harry was already in enough trouble for underage magic, wasn't he? It was so bloody _unfair_! he thought sullenly. All to try to save someone's life, not that anyone seemed to believe him. In fact, all to save _Dudley bloody Dursley_ from a Dementor. Good God, if he was going to have his wand snapped for this, why couldn't it have been someone he actually _liked_?!  
  
A finger jabbed him in the ribs, making him jump.  
  
“Pick up that lip before you trip over it, Harry!” said Ginny as she breezed over to the kitchen sink to get a drink from the groaning faucet. When he glared at her, she just grinned and stuck her tongue out at him. Involuntarily, he felt his lip twitch up.  
  
Her grin widened as she put her mug back on the counter. “I know I'd be looking a bit grim if I had to listen to these two all the time. How do they _do_ it?”  
  
He grunted vaguely in reply. Ginny, now. Ginny wouldn't have been so bad. Actually, he _had_ saved her life once, but even if they had contemplated slinging him out for killing a centuries-old basilisk he would at least have had the consolation of having done it for a genuinely nice person, let alone her family.  
  
Actually, he owed her family rather a lot more than he cared to think about. Never mind that he was friends with most of the Weasley children, Mr and Mrs Weasley had taken him in and treated him a like a son. No matter what, they hadn't hesitated to stand by him — like now, living in this horrendous old dump when they could have just shrugged and gone back home any time that they liked. He wondered if he'd ever be able to tell them how grateful he was.  
  
Another, gentler, prod bought him back to the present. Ginny was standing in front of him, looking at him with big, serious eyes. “All this unresolved sexual tension is robbing you of the power of speech,” she said solemnly, with a nod of the head at Ron and Hermione who were _still_ at it, oblivious to everything. “I think you'd better come with me before it melts your brain entirely.”  
  
He let her pull him out of the chair and lead him along the grimy, cavernous hall. You had to step carefully, as despite the holes in the moth-eaten carpet it seemed to trip you rather more often than natural — and judging by some of the other things they'd found in the house, it probably had some long-term aim of eating its victim.  
  
The library was one of the few rooms which was now more-or-less habitable, probably inevitable in a house containing Hermione for any length of time. There was an old horse-hair settee next to a writing desk along one wall, and a matching wing-backed armchair under the single narrow, high window which lit the room. It was into the latter that Ginny cast herself with a sigh, tucking her legs up underneath herself.  
  
“I swear, those two will either marry each other or kill each other, and there's no telling which. I just wish they'd get _on_ with it.”  
  
In spite of his bad mood, Harry snorted. “You reckon? Try living with the two of them at school.”  
  
Ginny laughed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear, “How on earth you survived the whole 'Krum' thing last year without slapping the pair of them — repeatedly — is a mystery to me!”  
  
Harry grunted, “Looks like I picked the wrong year to miss out on Quidditch. Painful wasn't the word for it! They've always been like that, though, even in first year.”  
  
Ginny grinned, “I'd say it's been getting even more frequent in the last year or so. All those excuses to listen to each others' voices, all that leaning close together, all that heavy breathing on Hermione's part.”  
  
She made an obvious gesture over her chest, making Harry's eyes bug out. “Ginny!”  
  
“What?” she said innocently, “Don't tell me that _you_ need to work out that Hermione's a girl, too? I don't think anyone could stand another year like last year.”  
  
Distantly, they heard the front door creak open. Given the lack of screaming from the psychotic painting of Mrs Black in the hallway, the protesting hinges obviously hadn't been enough to wake her.  
  
“I know she's a girl!” said Harry defensively, “I'm well aware that Hermione's female, but... but that's just _wrong_!”  
  
“Don't tell me you like boys? There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but if you tell me that Malfoy's creepy obsession with you _isn't_ just part of a mutual hate-hate relationship, I think I'm going to be sick!”  
  
“_What_?! No! I like girls!” spluttered Harry, bewildered, “I like girls just fine! Oh man, that's revolting! No, Hermione's just... it'd be like you noticing that about your brothers!”  
  
Ginny pretended to stick her fingers down her throat. “Urgh! I see your point. Well, anyway, I don't think anyone wants to put up with another year of that. I can't believe that either of them could be so _dense_!”  
  
“Including Ron?”  
  
“Including Ron!”  
  
They chattered on for a few minutes, and Harry gradually realised that his mood had improved. It plummeted again when he heard an ear-shattering bellow of “_What_?!” from the kitchen, setting off a demonic shriek of rage from Mrs. Black as she embarked on another of her vile outbursts.  
  
One thing that Harry had noticed despite his own confusion when he arrived at Grimmauld Place was that Sirius' mental state was still rather fragile. He could be cheerful and often quite charming, but he sometimes sank into an almost frenzied manic depression, pacing and snarling like a caged beast — which to some extent he was. Despite his escape after 12 years unjustly imprisoned in the deepest pits of Azkaban, he was still very much a wanted man, and being trapped in the much-hated Gothic manor of his child-hood wasn't helping.  
  
“Harry! Harry, get in here!” they heard Sirius' voice, tinged with panic, over the shrieks of the painting.  
  
A moment later, Mrs Black was silenced and the tired-looking form of Remus Lupin, panting slightly, appeared in the doorway. “Hallo, Harry, Ginny. Did you hear Sirius' dulcet tones? I think something's come up.”  
  
“Then he'll have to take matters into his own hands,” said Ginny, with a straight face.  
  
“Really, Professor? I'd never have guessed!” said Harry acidly, completely missing the horrified look on Lupin's face. “Any idea what it is?”  
  
“None, I've only just walked in. About the only think I can think of is that I picked up the post on the way here, though. It's probably just a bill or something and he's flown off the handle,” said Remus weakly.  
  
“Well, we'd better go and find out before he bursts a blood vessel,” said Harry, rising. As he passed the armchair he took Ginny's outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet, and the two of them started after the werewolf.  
  
“A Galleon says the _Prophet_'s got hold of the story about me and it's all over the front page,” he muttered to her in the hall.  
  
“Oh, Harry, they wouldn't! Not even the _Prophet_ would stoop that low,” she protested.  
  
“Yeah, well, I wouldn't be so sure,” said Harry, stepping through the kitchen door.  
  
Inside, they were immediately assailed by a wall of noise, having passed through a silencing charm. Sirius was striding back and forth spewing a furious volley of invective which Mrs. Weasley was trying to chide him for without much success. Ron and Hermione were still at the table but, thankfully, silent for a change. Hermione was bursting with curiosity to know what had set the man off, while Ron looked like he was making note of some of the words in case he could re-use them in the future.  
  
Lupin managed to silence the lot of them by letting off a cannon blast from his wand. “Now then, Sirius, are you going to explain what the rumpus is about?” he asked calmly into the shocked silence.  
  
“This... this _rag_..,” Sirius spluttered incoherently, waving a _Daily Prophet _around like a war axe, “Front page; Harry Potter Charged!”  
  
Ginny turned and gave Harry an apologetic look full of sympathy, but he could only shake his head in appalled disgust. “See? It was about as inevitable as Snape dodging the shampoo isle at the apothecary.”  
  
Lupin blinked, then strode over to grab the paper and see for himself. “Surely you can't be serious?!”  
  
Sirius thumped the kitchen worktop, “Damn it, of course I'm Sirius!” he roared. “And don't call me Shirley!”  
  
There was a choking noise from the kitchen table and Hermione slid off her chair and under the table, laughing hysterically as Ron and Harry exchanged mystified looks. Ron looked down into his half-drunk tea-cup.  
  
“Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up pumpkin juice,” he said in bewilderment.  
  
Harry collapsed into a spare seat at the table. “Oh, for the love of Merlin! Can we cut this circus for a minute and tell me what this article actually says?”  
  
Sirius let out a particularly foul word, making Remus wince. Mrs. Weasley drew herself up to her full height and cast a silencing charm on the man.  
  
“Sirius Black! That's quite enough! I'm sure you're upset, but if you can't get a grip on yourself you'll just have to remain silent!”  
  
If anything, this encouraged Sirius to new heights. They watched his mute, frenzied swearing in fascination as he hurled the paper down onto the Welsh dresser and waved his arms in silent apoplexy. Finally, red-faced and panting, he waved to Mrs Weasley, who cancelled her charm.  
  
“Thank you, Molly, that's much better,” he said in a calm voice.  
  
“Will someone please put me out of my misery, here?” Harry demanded loudly. “Ginny? _Please_?”  
  
Pale-faced, the girl picked up the paper and read aloud, her soft voice carrying clearly through the shocked kitchen.  


>   
“_Until now, it seemed that the worst of the fallout from May's tragic events at Hogwarts had _  
_Passed, with the death of Cedric Diggory in the re-established Triwizard Tournament._  
_Yesterday, however, in a sensational turn of events, a source revealed to this paper that the _  
_Other wizard who mysteriously disappeared during the final event of the Tournament, the _  
_Unstable and erratic Harry Potter, has recently been charged with serious breaches of_  
_Regulations regarding the Decree for Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic and the _  
_Statute of Secrecy._  
_“Hours earlier, questions were again raised in the Ministry regarding Potter and his _  
_Guardians, given his unexplained involvement in several deaths at Hogwarts._”

  
  
“What hell is this?” said Ron in disbelief, “It sounds like Rita Skeeter at her worst.”  
  
“That's because it _is_ Rita Skeeter,” said Sirius, with a barely restrained snarl.  
  
“It can't be! I've... erm-” insisted Hermione, before realising what she was about to admit to and breaking off in confusion.  
  
Ginny leaned over and pushed the paper in front of her. “Read the first letters of the first nine lines, then.”  
  
Hermione's mouth formed a small 'o' as Ron bent his head over her shoulder. “UP YOURS HG... oh. _Oh_! I thought you had an agreement-”  
  
“Oh, use your brain, Ron!” Hermione snapped acidly.  
  
“Hermione! Manners, if you don't mind!” said Mrs. Weasley reproachfully, “I know you're upset, but I expect better from you.”  
  
“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” she muttered, still giving Ron a dirty look.  
  
Remus walked over to rest a hand on Harry's shoulder, but his head had already sunk forward until it rested on the table top. “Keep going, Ginny,” said Harry, his voice tight.  
  
“I think that's quite enough of that rot, Harry, no-one of any sense would believe a word,” said Mrs. Weasley, reassuringly.  
  
“_Ginny_!”  
  
Slowly, Ginny retrieved the paper and continued to read.  
  


> “_Following the mysterious death of a promising and talented young teacher, Quirinus Quirrell, in Potter's first year the mayhem continued in his second, with Potter heavily implicated in the petrification of a number of students and the tragic mental injuries suffered by another of Potter's teachers, Gilderoy Lockhart. While the confused explanations offered by Hogwarts' ancient and venerated Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, may have passed muster at the time, serious questions were asked about Potter and his possible Dark affiliations after his apparent collusion with the notorious escaped mass murderer Sirius Black at the end of his third year. Again Dumbledore tried to smooth matters over, allowing Potter to return to Hogwarts this year. The farcical shenanigans that followed, as Potter managed to hijack the international Triwizard Tournament seemingly to satisfy his ever-growing thirst for attention, ended in chaos, mystery, and death. _  
  
_“Speaking yesterday in _Minister's Question Time_, former member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors Lucius Malfoy (Con., Wiltshire), demanded a public inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the final task of the Triwizard Tournament and the death of Cedric Diggory._”

  
  
“'I am a Death Eater and an absolutely thundering arse,'” drawled Ron mockingly, in a passable impression of the elder Malfoy, “'I have spoken to You-Know-Who, and he assures me that he was torturing babies in Hawaii at the time'. Who the heck asked him, anyway? Everyone knows he's a lying crook!”  
  
“More importantly, why is he keeping this in the spotlight? You'd think the last thing he'd want is for people to be asking questions, because if they do they'll see that Harry's right,” said Hermione loyally.  
  
“Because if he gets to control the questions, then he can turn it into a prolonged slander of Harry and Dumbledore and undermine their credibility,” said Remus. “You've seen some of the stuff the _Prophet_'s been spouting recently.”  
  
“Damn it, I should have ripped his lungs out through his ears twenty years ago,” snarled Sirius.  
  
Harry cut across Remus' rebuke. “What did he say, Ginny?”  
  
Ginny fidgeted silently for a minute.  
  
“Well?”  
  
She cleared her throat nervously and continued.  
  


> “_'Professor Dumbledore, while no doubt well-intentioned, has shown a remarkable disrespect to Cedric and his family by denying them the truth of what occurred during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The fact remains that the two boys emerged from the task together, and one of them had clearly been murdered. That the notoriously unstable Harry Potter can only produce a patently ridiculous fairytale about You-Know-Who in his defence is extremely suspicious. That Professor Dumbledore should choose to place his backing behind that story is nothing short of scandalous._  
  
_“'I call upon the Minister to order a full public enquiry into the events surrounding the final task of the Triwizard Tournament and the death of Cedric Diggory. I call upon the Hogwarts Board of Governors to demand that Professor Dumbledore resign immediately as Headmaster of Hogwarts, or be sacked for gross misconduct. Lastly, I call upon Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, to immediately take Harry Potter into custody until he may be questioned by the Wizengamot regarding the death of Cedric Diggory and also the other deaths, suspicious injuries, and violence which has trailed in his wake during his time at Hogwarts.'_”

  
  
The room descended into uproar as Ginny read the final sentence, with Ron and Hermione shouting their protests at the injustice, Sirius transforming into dog form to voice his displeasure in savage barks, and even Mrs. Weasley reaching boiling point.  
  
“This is bollocks, mate! Absolute bollocks! You're going to get out of this, and we're with you every damn step of the way!” Ron shouted.  
  
“Ron's right, we can't let them get away with this,” said Hermione passionately, her earlier grudge with Ron temporarily forgotten. “We've got to stop this from going any further.”  
  
“That's all well and good, but let's not go off at half-cock just yet. They don't know where Harry is, so for the time being he's perfectly safe,” said Remus reasonably.  
  
“Yes, right up until they convene their kangaroo court,” growled Sirius. “If it gets to that point, he's got no chance. I've seen just what passes for justice when the Ministry has a mind for it.”  
  
“Is there _anyone_ on my side?” asked Harry in despair.  
  
“All of us, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley firmly. “The whole Order, and Professor Dumbledore, too. If he can't find a way out of this, no-one can.”  
  
“I'm not sure whether I should be reassured by that or not,” said Harry. “I meant anyone in the Ministry? As much as I like you guys, you're not going to be the ones who get to make the decision.”  
  
Ginny bit her lip. “Well... I guess Minister Fudge is. Sort of.”  
  
“Cornelius Fudge?” groaned Harry, “Oh my God, I'm doomed! Someone light a fire in that hearth and I'll throw my wand on it now! What exactly do you mean by, 'Sort of'?”  
  
“Ginny, stop,” said Mrs. Weasley in a quiet, firm voice. “I know you mean well, but you're not helping.”  
  
“Please?”  
  
Ginny took a deep, shuddering breath and continued to read.  
  


> “_Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge (Whig, Suffolk), rebuffed Mr. Malfoy's demands as an overreaction. 'While I agree that Potter's story is patently untrue, locking up a traumatised teenager is not the way forward, nor is removing a great servant of this country at a time when instability threatens. What this country needs is firm leadership-_  


  
  
Blah, blah, blah. The rest is the usual self-serving rubbish you'd expect.”  
  
“Good, so with that in mind he's resigned, has he?” snorted Ron. “He couldn't lead his way out of a wet paper bag!”  
  
“Maybe not, but he's all we've got,” said Sirius darkly.  
  
“Keep it up, this is all _very_ encouraging,” said Hermione sarcastically.  
  
“Well, if you've got a great idea, let's hear it,” snapped Ron. “Come on, we're all ears.”  
  
The room descended into argument once again. Harry listened for a moment, a crushing ball of ice in his stomach, before he could take no more. He slid out of his chair and slipped, head down, for the door. Ron noticed him gone as the door hinges creaked. “Oh well done, Ginny, nice one.”  
  
“Young lady, I warned you-” Mrs. Weasley began to scold her youngest child, but was cut off by the door slamming back against the wall.  
  
“Don't you _dare_ start on Ginny!” he spat, furious, “Out of all of you, she's the only one with the guts to tell me what's going on! And you call yourselves my friends!”  
  
Harry's voice broke on the last word, and he turned and hurried away, rage and humiliation and _fear_ bubbling unpleasantly in his gut. They could sit and argue about who was right and throw blame around until the cows came home if that was what they wanted.  
  
He just wanted to be alone.  
  


=====// \\\=====

  
  
He was unsurprised that she was the one to find him. The slowly deepening shade of gold in the light coming though the grimy windows told him that most of the afternoon had passed since he walked out of the kitchen after hearing that news of his latest scrape had made the front page.  
  
He watched her bow cautiously to the hippogriff, and then drop a brief curtsey in reply to its stately nod of approval. Graceful, and with the hint of puckish humour he had come to expect.  
  
She didn't come over to him, or even attempt to speak, but went and stroked the hippogriff's neck in silence as it chirped approvingly, rustling its wing feathers. She laughed, a surprisingly merry sound in his gloom, when it snuffled hopefully at her pockets.  
  
“Sorry Buckbeak, I don't carry dead rats around with me. You'll have to wait for Sirius if you're hungry.”  
  
Eventually she went and sat quietly on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite and regarding him in silence. With a scowl, he ignored her. Irritatingly, she paid no attention. Buckbeak followed the girl over and lowered his head for further scratches, distracting her, but after a few minutes the hippogriff lost interest and stalked back to the nest it had made in the remains of Sirius' mother's bed.  
  
The echoes of the hippogriff's heavy footfalls and the protesting squeaks of the floorboards died away into silence, and Harry realised just how quiet the old house was. The house somehow managed to swallow sound at the best of times, despite the presence of many inhabitants, but now all was still.  
  
The quiet gradually made its way into his bones, slowly draining the anger and embarrassment away to leave a cold, dull knot of hopelessness in his chest. She remained silent, moving only a couple of times to change her weight, her patience seemingly endless. Merlin knew his wasn't. Locked up with the damn Dursleys _again_ for another summer, tolerating their barbs and petty spite during the day only to relive the sadistic glee of Voldemort reborn and the dull, accusing stare of Cedric's vacant eyes during the nights. It was enough to make you scream.  
  
He did feel a twinge of guilt for unloading on Ron and Hermione the second he walked through the door, but his frustration had boiled over. As much as he was loath to admit that he needed them — too much touchy-feely girly-stuff — he knew that he had been unfair to them and probably really needed to apologise.  
  
Even so, had it been too much for someone to let him know that Sirius was alive and safe? He had been on tenterhooks all summer, but not a peep from anyone. If it was so secret that it couldn't be committed to paper, which had made Ron and Hermione's tantalising letters even more irritating, as the damned Order of the Phoenix was camped around Privet Drive twenty-four hours a day surely one of them could have said something? Although unless appearances were very, _very_, deceiving, given the nature of his 'guard' when he'd been attacked by the Dementors, the Order looked more like a Disorder.  
  
It felt good just to sit in quiet for a while and let himself unwind, but gradually he realised that the light was fading and his backside hurt. Ginny was still sitting silently, waiting.  
  
“I wonder what's going on down there?” he said, his voice scratchy and dry.  
  
Ginny made a face. “Sirius and Mum sniping at each other. Dad falling asleep by the kitchen fire. Ron and Hermione bickering about nothing and making eyes at each other. Fred and George annoying Crookshanks and winding Bill up. Same as every night for the last month or so. Either that or they sling us all out and have their super-secret meetings in the kitchen.”  
  
Harry was silent for a bit. “Look, I'm sorry if I got you into trouble earlier,” he muttered awkwardly.  
  
“Don't worry about it. It's bad enough that they won't tell us anything about Voldemort, but not to tell you what's going on in the Ministry about your hearing is ridiculous.”  
  
Harry stared. “You used his name.”  
  
Ginny gave a bitter laugh and tossed her head, an oddly proud gesture. “That's not his name. We both know that.”  
  
_Of course. And Ginny would know that better than anyone._ “I suppose you're right. Somehow it's difficult to think of Voldemort and Tom Riddle as being the same. Voldemort just seems...”  
  
Harry trailed off, and Ginny filled in for him. “More than human but at the same time, much less.”  
  
Harry nodded, and she continued. “Of course he does. That's what he wants you to think. Voldemort is the legend, the name which the nightmares are built around. It's a name that gives him power that the old Tom Riddle never had, not really. Voldemort is a name that has his enemies defeated before he even lifts a finger. Tom Riddle just sounds like a kid who might give you a nasty Chinese burn behind the Herbology greenhouses.”  
  
Harry laughed, startled. “That's a unique way of putting it.”  
  
“Perhaps. But as much as he tries to hide it, underneath he's still human. Nasty, twisted, sadistic, and as close to utterly evil as you can get, but human. He'll never escape that.”  
  
Harry just nodded, unnerved by Ginny's careless deconstruction of the most feared Dark Lord in centuries. He let a diplomatic silence descend over the room, watching curiously as Ginny stared detachedly into space for a few moments before shaking herself back to the present, her long red hair coiling and glinting like a river of fire in the fading light.  
  
“First things first, I suppose. If I don't win this hearing I don't think Voldemort will have too much to worry about. You say Fudge is on my side?”  
  
Ginny snorted derisively. “Fudge is on Fudge's side. He may not have jumped when Lucius Malfoy said 'Jump', but that's only because he probably has a haunting fear that you might be right. And when he can't put his head in the sand and deny it any longer he's going to have to go crawling to Dumbledore, and try to explain to the public why he locked up the Boy Who Lived and sacked the only wizard Voldemort was ever scared of.”  
  
“You're awfully cynical sometimes, Ginny,” Harry said, half in admiration.  
  
“Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?” she asked sweetly.  
  
Harry chuckled, “Not if I fancy my bogeys where they are! What did Fudge actually say?”  
  
“I can't remember it word for word, but the gist of it was that Dumbledore should have someone appointed to keep an eye on him and you should be sent to St. Mungo's rather than to prison. Which is _awfully_ nice of him,” she concluded sarcastically.  
  
“St. Mungos?” said Harry, horrified. His mind flashed to the Janus Thickey ward. Would they lock him up with the likes Gilderoy Lockheart? Strap him down to a bed to stop him escaping? If they did, he knew pictures would be in the _Prophet_ the following day and any faint remaining hope of losing the tag of mental instability would be lost forever.  
  
“Well, better that than Azkaban, I suppose,” said Ginny.  
  
“_St Mungo's_?” Harry repeated, still rather dazed at the thought. Ginny gave him an odd look.  
  
“It's a large magical hospital in the centre of London disguised as a disused Muggle department store, but that's not important right now. Harry, we have to make sure you're not in a position where they can put you in either.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Harry sighed dispiritedly. “Just how I'm going to do that, I haven't a clue. The _Prophet_'s taking the mickey out of me on a daily basis. Lucius Malfoy is telling anyone who'll listen that I'm nuttier than dried squirrel poo. And Rita Skeeter's not only on the loose but now she's out for my blood even more than usual, although how the hell _that_ happened I haven't a clue.”  
  
Ginny made a face. “For once, Hermione's not been as clever as she thought. Her leverage was that Skeeter is an unregistered animagus. So earlier I went and looked through some of last week's _Daily Prophet_'s and sure enough, buried in the announcements is a notice that she's registered, backdated a number of years after she paid a nominal fine. It doesn't say any more than that, which technically it's supposed to according to Professor Lupin, but either way it means that Hermione's got nothing on her any more.”  
  
Harry winced. “'Up yours, Hermione.'”  
  
“Exactly. And by association, 'look out Harry', she's spitting mad and has a whacking great grudge to nurse.”  
  
“Wonderful. Just wonderful!” moaned Harry. “I wonder if there's anything that could depress me more?”  
  
The door crashed open to reveal Professor Snape, making the two of them jump. His face bore the trademark signs of his utter disdain.  
  
Harry sighed in the sudden silence, “Of course it could.”  
  
Behind them, Buckbeak leapt to his feet, his wings raised threateningly.  
  
“I thought I heard your familiar, self-obsessed whining as I was coming down the hall, Potter. If you can drag yourself away from your teenage angst for a moment, I have a letter from Professor Dumbledore,” said Snape, staying in the doorway.  
  
“Nice to see you, too, Professor,” said Harry through gritted teeth. He held out a hand for the letter, but Snape's scowl just deepened.  
  
“As I expected, you immediately assume it's for you.”  
  
“Well, if it isn't then why did you come all the way up here to tell him?” asked Ginny, with some asperity. Harry felt like applauding.  
  
“Like you, I couldn't stand to be without the light of his company, you arrogant brat!” said Snape sarcastically.  
  
“Don't talk to Ginny like that!” Harry snapped angrily.  
  
“What are you going to do, set you Patronus on me?” Snape tossed the letter in Harry's approximate direction and whirled on his heel.  
  
Harry watched the closing door, fuming. “What a charming man,” he said, when he had a grip of his temper. “I almost wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry him.”  
  
“I don't think that's likely to be a problem,” said Ginny, with a shudder. “What does Dumbledore's letter say?”  
  
Harry collected the letter from the floor and slit the flap with his finger, reading the name off the front at the same time; “'_Mr. H.J. Potter, Esq._'. A simply 'Harry' would have done!”  
  
He pulled out the sheet of parchment and unfolded it.  
  


> '_Dear Mr. Potter,_  
_“As you have no doubt been informed, your hearing is scheduled for 9:30 a.m. on the 12th instant at the Ministry of Magic. I am taking steps to ensure that it is as much a formality as possible, but be prepared for an awkward interrogation. As ever, the truth will be your best and only defence, no matter the provocation.”_  
_Cordially yours,_  
_A.P.W.B. Dumbledore_'

  
  
“Oh, jolly. I'm totally reassured,” said Harry flatly. “What could possibly go wrong?”  
  
“How long have you got?” asked Ginny, with a grin. “Don't worry, according to the Professor, 'The Truth Shall Make Ye Free'.”  
  
“More like, 'The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret',” grumbled Harry. He watched as Ginny stood and stretched like a cat. “Are you OK?” he asked.  
  
“My butt hurts,” she admitted. “When you brood, you do it properly.”  
  
“I wasn't brooding! I was thinking!” Harry protested. Ginny just looked at him, one eyebrow raised. After a moment he cracked. “OK, maybe I was brooding a little, too.”  
  
Ginny bit her lip. “Look, even if Dumbledore says he's got everything under control, that doesn't mean we can't plan for every eventuality, does it? Just in case.”  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
“I mean we make sure you're clear on your defence, try to think of alternatives. See if we can pick holes in your story, that sort of thing. You can be sure that someone will do their damnedest to trip you up, so you might as well get some practice at dealing with it,” Ginny said darkly. “You know what they say — hope for the best, plan for the worst. Are you really sure you want to rely on other people to get you off this?”  
  
Harry thought for a second. “Good point.”  
  
“I'm sure Ron and Hermione will help, too.”  
  
“I'm sure Ron and Hermione will want to help, then squabble over the best way to do it, start trying to impress each other, and completely forget what we're trying to do,” Harry corrected her grumpily. “If they can drag themselves away, fine, but if they start on that again I'm going to strangle them!”  
  
Ginny laughed, “Perhaps we can find some sort of spell which will dump a bucket of water over them whenever they start to argue.”  
  
“Now, that I believe we can help you with!” The door flew open with a crash and Fred and George sauntered in, bowing extravagantly to the irritated Buckbeak.  
  
“Tsk, tsk, children, hiding away behind closed doors together, all alone! Why, you could be up to anything!” Fred teased. Harry blushed, but Ginny kept her cool thanks to years of experience.  
  
“No, I think you're thinking of my brother. Tall, gangly, Hermione fixation?”  
  
The twins laughed.  
  
“Oh _that_ one! Yes, I think I know who you mean,” said George.  
  
“Can't possibly imagine how we mixed you up,” added Fred. “What did you say to Snape, Harry? He was practically frothing at the mouth just now?”  
  
Harry shrugged, “Nothing much. He was being a complete berk, as per usual.”  
  
“Well, it's safe to come downstairs again, now. He and Professor Lupin just went out.”  
  
Harry's brow wrinkled, “Together?”  
  
Fred and George turned and looked at each other for a second. “Snape and Professor Lupin just went out,” they chanted in unison. Harry resisted the urge to beat his head against the wall, but only just. The twins could be like that.  
  
“Anyway, Ginny, I think Mum's looking for you. Bed time, young lady, you need your beauty sleep,” said George.  
  
“Not half as much as you do if you want Angelina to go out with you,” Ginny fired back.  
  
“Oooooooh!” the twins squealed in a mocking falsetto, “Get her!”  
  
The four of them tumbled out onto the landing and clattered downstairs for the kitchen, their youthful laugher the first the old house had heard in many years. _Suddenly_, thought Harry, _the place doesn't seem quite so bad_.  
  
It was a shame for the screams of Sirius' mother to ruin the moment, really.  
  


=====// \\\=====

  



	2. Having a Grim Old Time

=====// \\\=====

  
  
Any hopes they had of exploring Harry's defence further were firmly scuttled by Molly Weasley the following morning as she set them to work clearing rubbish and dealing with the hordes of minor pests in the guest bedroom on the second floor. By lunchtime, Harry would have been pleased to never see another doxy in his life. The nasty little beggars had bitten him and Ron, and one had gotten away from Fred when he was examining it and bitten his face bloody before he slapped it away and George hosed it down with copious amounts of doxycide.  
  
It was getting on for seven by the time Mrs. Weasley called a halt, and it was only after dinner that Harry and Ginny were able to slip away to Buckbeak's room where they could have a modicum of privacy. The hippogriff seemed pleased to see them, and followed Ginny around demanding to have his head scratched along his crest and under his beak. Privately, Harry would have hesitated to put his hand so close to that bear-trap of a beak, but Ginny seemed unconcerned.  
  
“So, where should we start?” she asked. “How about you tell me what happened and we'll go from there?”  
  
Ginny sat silently as Harry recited his tale, occasionally scribbling in a small notebook. He cut the story off after he related the owls arriving in the Dursley's kitchen, but she just sat there twisting a long strand of hair around her finger, looking thoughtful. He waited for her to say something and just when his patience wore out and he was about to ask if she'd fallen asleep, she spoke.  
  
“First things first, they're after you for underage magic and breaking the Statute of Secrecy. In the first instance, you have a right to use magic to save your own life and others, everyone knows that. Not just willy-nilly but if there's no alternative. I'd say a pair of hungry Dementors would count!  
  
“Secondly... secondly, Dudley is your cousin and lives with your guardians. Therefore he's in on the secret, so I don't think he actually counts as a Muggle in this case. If he does, I wonder if _you_ could accuse _the Ministry_ of the same, seeing as they sent all those owls? I suppose they might argue that someone else might have seen you, but we really need to look up the law on that one.”  
  
“Sounds like a job for Hermione if ever I've heard one,” said Harry with a wry smile.  
  
Ginny grinned at him. “Very probably, and there must be something in the library she can lay her hands on other than my brother. Can you sketch me the area around the alley, Harry?”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“So I can get a better idea of where you were and where everything is.”  
  
She passed over her notebook and he quickly made a rough drawing.  
  
“Good grief, Harry, your writing's terrible! So you ran into Dudley here...”  
  
She ran him through his story again and this time got him to show were he was standing as it progressed on the map, teasing details out of him about the houses at each point. Gradually, the sketch grew more detailed and notes filled the facing page.  
  
They looked up at a tentative tap at the door, and Hermione's head peeked around it. “Oh, there you are! We were wondering where you'd got to, Harry.”  
  
She pushed the door wider and walked in, towing Ron behind her. When she saw Harry looking at her hand on Ron's wrist, the two yanked their hands apart like they were electrified. Ginny rolled her eyes.  
  
“What are you two up to?” asked Ron, his ears still glowing red with embarrassment. His eyes widened when he saw the notebook on the floor between them. “Please tell me you're not doing homework, Harry. We get enough of that at school.”  
  
Hermione glared at him, and Harry hurried to cut off the inevitable argument. “It's about my hearing. Ginny thought it would be a good idea to go over some stuff in case I need it.”  
  
“Well, I'm glad to see _someone's_ thinking ahead,” said Hermione pointedly. Ron opened his mouth to retort but wilted under the combined glares of Hermione, Harry, and Ginny.  
  
“We were just talking about you, actually,” said Ginny. “We could do with knowing if Harry's relatives count under the Statute of Secrecy or not.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “Well, the obvious answer is, 'No', but now that you mention it I wonder if there could be something around them not being of Harry's paternal line...”  
  
“That would only be important if it was a matter of inheritance, but Harry is the eldest male and only surviving descendant, so that question doesn't arise. His aunt, however, was sister to a witch and... what?!”  
  
Hermione was looking at him like he'd suddenly grown three extra heads. “I didn't know you know all that stuff, Ron,” she said a little breathlessly.  
  
“Back to the matter at hand,” said Harry loudly, “Could you look up the current law on that for me, please?”  
  
“Of course. Professor Dumbledore would know, of course, being Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot-”  
  
“_Was_ Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot,” muttered Ron, “They removed him, remember?”  
  
“Well, of course, but-”  
  
“Anyway, he wrote to Harry.” Ginny wasn't going to let them get started, either.  
  
“Did he?” Hermione visibly relaxed. “Oh. Well, there you are, Harry, you'll have nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Hermione, I'm not prepared to risk my wand on someone else taking care of it for me. This isn't just some silly school detention or something, this is an entirely different scale of problem altogether!”  
  
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny exchanged a look. “It's an entirely different scale of problem,” they repeated uncertainly. Harry clapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. _There must be something in the water around this place_!  
  
Hermione rushed to mollify him, “Don't worry, Harry, I'll get straight on to it in the morning. It's getting late and Mrs. Weasley will be looking for us shortly.”  
  
“I'll help,” Ron added, somewhat inevitably.  
  
“And maybe I will write to Professor Dumbledore anyway, I'm sure he'll know,” Hermione added, chewing her lip thoughtfully.  
  
Harry and Ginny exchanged a look and smirked. The Girl Genius was on the case!  
  


=====// \\\=====

  
  
Later, Harry tip-toed into the darkened room he shared with Ron and quickly changed into his pyjamas, roughly folding his clothes and stacking them on the wooden chair beside his bed. As he settled under his blankets, he heard Ron roll over in the other bed. After a moment, the other boy spoke.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You and Ginny... she's helping you with stuff?”  
  
Harry wondered why Ron was bringing this up again. “Yeah. She thought I could do with some preparation, and the more we've done tonight the better that idea looks. She got me to do maps and everything!”  
  
“Huh. That sounds a lot like Hermione; if in doubt, draw up a 700-point plan! Do you think it's helping?”  
  
“It's been good, actually, it's helped me get everything straight in my head. I guess I've been worrying about it a lot but I haven't actually sat down and worked out what happened and how I can describe things to other people.”  
  
“I suppose you're going to have to. You know, at the hearing, and everything.”  
  
“Yeah. And I'm probably going to get the third degree from someone, so we might try to practice that as well.”  
  
He could almost hear Ron smile.  
  
“Yeah, I reckon Ginny would be good at that. For a midget, she can be pretty intimidating if she tries; she must get it from Mum, I think.”  
  
“She doesn't have to spend her time helping me out,” said Harry, a bit nettled, “But I'm bloody glad she is!”  
  
“All right, mate, calm down! Only joking.” There was a brief silence. “Ginny can be kinda cool sometimes, you know?” said Ron, before adding hurriedly, “Don't tell her I said that!”  
  
Harry grinned. “Your secret is safe with me.”  
  
He heard Ron chuckle. “I don't think I could handle all the girly stuff if it got out. Goodnight, Harry.”  
  
“Night, Ron.”  
  


=====// \\\=====

  
  
The next morning, Mrs. Weasley had all of the youngsters back at work immediately after breakfast, this time carefully clearing away the pests and the quite startling array of peculiar trinkets and cursed knick-knacks in the drawing room. Harry wondered who on earth would surround themselves with such a collection of dangerous articles but, as Sirius pointed out, most of his family had only a passing acquaintance with sanity at the best of times.  
  
It was quite a lot of fun working with everyone, despite Mrs. Weasley's increasingly-annoyed efforts at getting Fred and George to stop teasing Ron. It took a while for Harry to catch on that they were using it as a distraction tactic to sneak various items into their pockets, It was quite funny, but he worried a little about what they were getting themselves into. And besides, Ron _was_ hovering rather protectively over Hermione, who didn't seem at all put out by it.  
  
It wasn't just the magical cleaning that took up their time. Once the room was safe and pest-free, there was still the job of cleaning up the years of accreted dust, smoke, mould, and general grime that coated every surface. It was well into the evening by the time that Mrs. Weasley declared herself satisfied, and while she hurried downstairs to check on dinner, Harry was more than happy to go and scrub the filth and caked remains of Magical Mess Remover off his aching hands.  
  
It was relatively quiet that evening over dinner, just the Weasleys, Hermione, and Sirius, with no sign of the rest of the Order. Having helped Mrs. Weasley clear everything away, Harry and Ginny set off once again towards Buckbeak's room. As they passed the drawing room, Harry heard Mr. Weasley calling his name.  
  
He put his head around the door to see Mr. Weasley wrestling with the hood of the tall grandfather clock standing in the far corner, his wand tucked behind one ear. Earlier in the day, the clock had fired a crossbow bolt at Ginny that whistled barely an inch past her startled nose.  
  
“Are you all right, Mr. Weasley?” he asked.  
  
“Ah, good lad. Would you hold this for me for a moment?” With that, Mr. Weasley thrust the large, dusty hood into his arms. It was surprisingly light for its size, but very dusty; no-one had wanted to approach it after Ginny's narrow scrape.  
  
“Err...”  
  
“Just pop it down by the table, if you don't mind? Wonderful!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed, with an excited grin on his face. He reached one arm into the narrow case and the other around behind the dial. By the time Harry had deposited the hood, he returned in time to be handed the pendulum and its heavy bob, and Ginny, who had come in to see what was happening, got a hefty pair of cast-iron weights.  
  
He stood the pendulum carefully up against the table and turned to see Mr. Weasley cradling the movement and its brass dial, which he set down on the table and propped up with old books.  
  
“What are you up to now, Daddy?” Ginny asked, amused.  
  
He smiled at her with infectious enthusiasm. “I thought I'd see whether I could remove the curse on this old clock and get it running properly again. Good practice, don't you know! I wouldn't mind some help, either, if you don't mind?”  
  
Harry and Ginny exchanged a look.  
  
“OK, Dad. What do you want us to do?”  
  
Harry wasn't overly excited to be re-acquainted with his polishing cloth so soon, but it was nice to see how enthused Ginny was to be helping her father. As he and Ginny worked their way over first the hood, and then the rest of the case with a pungent-smelling bottle of some oily liquid, he watched as Mr. Weasley carefully dismantled part of the movement, humming to himself under his breath while he worked. Gradually the blackened old metal was magicked back to bright steel and glowing brass, and even the old dial regained some of its former glory.  
  
Mr. Weasley was just straightening the hands when Sirius walked in.  
  
“What are you doing with that horrible old thing, Arthur? I was going to put it in the basement, or burn it, I suppose,” he said with a scowl.  
  
“Great Merlin, you don't want to do that! Especially not to such a grand old clock!” When Sirius looked unconvinced, Mr. Weasley grinned. “I'll tell you one thing I bet you don't know; someone's been having a laugh at your family for more than a century, Sirius!”  
  
Sirius' mood lightened and he bent over the table to give it a closer look. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean that they certainly didn't know where this clock came from! Look here,” Mr. Weasley pointed with his wand, “This is the booby-trap that I removed; some sort of anti-burglar thing, I think, it's certainly not original. And see here, on these winding drums; see that rune? That's the self-winding spell which keeps everything running. Once a week, it turns the drum twelve times to bring the weights up. And down here, on the pendulum nut, is a regulating rune to ensure that it keeps time.”  
  
Sirius looked obligingly, but didn't seem especially interested. “That's nice, Arthur, but... what's the point of all this?”  
  
Mr. Weasley cast a sidelong glance at Harry and Ginny. “Are you going to explain it for him, you two?” he asked.  
  
Harry couldn't see what he was driving at, but Ginny laughed. “I think what Dad means is, if this is a magical clock, why does it need to do all these Muggle things to keep working?”  
  
A slow smile came over Sirius' face. “Surely you can't be serious?”  
  
Mr. Weasley looked puzzled for a moment. “I'm completely serious. And don't call me 'Shirley'. Anyway, someone managed to sell your family a Muggle grandfather clock with a few spells on it. It's almost certainly a very expensive clock in its day, but it's most definitely of Muggle origins, probably a couple of hundred years old,” said Mr. Weasley authoritatively.  
  
Sirius threw back his head and let out a loud, barking laugh. “That is the most brilliant thing I've heard in ages! I always wondered why Uncle Alphard liked it so much!”  
  
Harry could feel a wide smile on his face at Sirius' good mood. The man's joyous smile made him look years younger, maybe more like the man he had been before Azkaban. He caught Ginny looking at him, biting her lip to contain her own grin, and she gave him a wink.  
  
“Why don't we see if I've done it right?” said Mr. Weasley.  
  
“Yes, why don't we?” exclaimed Sirius eagerly. “What do I do?”  
  
With Sirius having taken over as assistant-in-chief, Mr. Weasley had the clock back together in short order. For some reason, Harry found himself holding his breath as Mr. Weasley reached a careful hand in through the trunk door to set the pendulum in motion.  
  
Quietly, there came a stately but steady beat, and the second hand began its stepwise progression around its little chapter ring. The minute hand moved rapidly around the dial for a moment, pausing briefly as it struck the hours, and as the last shimmers of the bell died away it slowed and took up the correct time.  
  
“Wonderful!” Mr. Weasley breathed reverently. A few flicks of his wand left the hood glass spotless, and he stepped back to admire their handiwork. “Isn't that the most amazing thing? And to think, some Muggle made all that by hand, with only simple tools. Beautiful!”  
  
Harry had to admit that it was. His and Ginny's work on the case left it a gleaming mahogany, the edges picked out in thin bands of ebony and the petals of a flower inlaid into the centre of the trunk door. The dial glittered brightly, its numbers etched in black against the silvered chapter rings. On either side of the numeral VI, he could see a name in flowing script.  
  
“Thos. Barrett, Lewes,” he read.  
  
“Thomas Barrett, that's the maker,” said Mr. Weasley. “You can probably look him up somewhere, knowing the Muggles. They keep marvellous records of these sorts of things.”  
  
Sirius grinned maniacally. “Arthur, does this mean that you have to arrest me for misuse of Muggle artefacts?”  
  
Harry and Ginny laughed.  
  
“Well, I hope not,” said Mr Weasley, scratching his head, “Otherwise I'll have to arrest myself for aiding and abetting! While we're waiting for the Aurors, why don't we all go and have a well-earned butterbeer for a job well done?”  
  
Back in the kitchen, Sirius chattered excitedly to Mr. Weasley over their butterbeer asking him all sorts of questions about clocks and repairing Muggle items. Harry was a bit surprised at the depth of Mr. Weasley's knowledge; his family gave the impression that he was a bit of an enthusiastic duffer. He and Ginny didn't say much, but Harry was pleased to sit and watch Sirius in such a good mood.  
  
Eventually, Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch. “Good gracious, is that the time? You children should think about going to bed.”  
  
“Yes, Dad,” said Ginny, getting to her feet. “Not that I didn't enjoy helping you tonight, but it's a little convenient that you suddenly found something that meant you could keep a close eye on Harry and I all evening,” she added calmly.  
  
“Err..” Mr. Weasley coughed, and looked slightly ashamed. Sirius just laughed. “Your mother, Ginny... sometimes she...” Mr. Weasley was groping for an explanation and, judging by the colour of his ears, he was feeling the pressure.  
  
“It's OK, Dad, I think I understand. But if Mum really wants to know what we have been 'getting up to', she could have just asked. I've been trying to help Harry prepare for his hearing. It's just easiest to do that somewhere quiet, that's all.”  
  
“Oh. I see. Well, I'm sure there's no harm in that. In fact, it sounds like a very good idea,” Mr. Weasley said nervously.  
  
Ginny smiled, “Good night Dad, Sirius.”  
  
Harry joined the chorus of 'Good night', but at the door they were called back by Mr. Weasley.  
  
“Ginny! Harry. Look, I'm sorry about this evening, but... I just want to tell you both, 'Good luck'. We're all counting on you.”  
  
“Thanks Dad,” said Ginny softly.  
  
Out in the hall, Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs and Ginny turned to look at him. “Well, that was weird. I hope they're not going to do that every night,” he grumbled.  
  
Ginny grinned. “I think we've got their point, and hopefully they've got ours. It's not the end of the world if we miss out one night. And besides, it was rather neat, wasn't it?”  
  
Harry had to smile, thinking of Sirius. “Yeah, it was.”  
  
“Good night, Harry.”  
  
“'Night, Ginny.”  
  


=====// \\\=====

  
  
The clock was an unobtrusive presence in the house, but somehow, knowing it was there and running added a near-silent heartbeat to the old house again. Harry pondered this as he lay awake and listened to the faint echoes of the two bell strikes die away. He had been troubled by dreams of claustrophobic corridors and locked doors again, and now sleep eluded him. Eventually, he threw back the covers and headed for the kitchen for a drink of water.  
  
There was a light showing under the kitchen door, and Harry found Sirius still sitting at the table with a chess board in front of him, a look of comically-intense concentration on his face. The air was pungent with the sharp smell of whisky, and an open bottle of Ogden's sat at Sirius' elbow.  
  
Sirius gave him a bleary-eyed look. “Oh. Harry. C'mon in. Can't sleep?”  
  
“No. I was just going to get a drink of water. What are you doing up, Sirius?” he asked awkwardly.  
  
Sirius grinned tiredly. “You're not the only one. So I'm having a little chess tournament. Me on one side...and me on the other,” he said, sending his knight forward to destroy a pawn. As the knight brought his mace down on the unfortunate pawn's head, Sirius pumped his fist and reached for the bottle.  
  
“OK. So which one of you is winning?” said Harry, thoroughly confused.  
  
Sirius took a long swallow and stared at him like he was daft. “Black, of course. _I'm_ a Black. Anything else would be unspeakable treachery.”  
  
“Err... of course,” said Harry, sidling over to the sink to look for a clean glass.  
  
“Come and have a seat, m'boy. If you can stand your disreputable old Godfather, of course.”  
  
Harry filled his glass and slid into a chair at the table. Sleep seemed like a long way away, so maybe the chance to talk to Sirius would fill in some time.  
  
“Some of this might help you, if you want,” Sirius suggested, waving the bottle. He laughed at the look on Harry's face. “Oh well, suit yourself. More for me.”  
  
“Are you sure you should be drinking that stuff?” asked Harry hesitantly.  
  
“Yup!” said Sirius with false cheer, taking another swig and blowing a smoke ring. “I've checked my diary for the morning. Hide in repulsive house. Clean. Refrain from strangling Kreacher. That's about it. I've got nothing else I _can_ do,” he added savagely.  
  
Harry studied the table top. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. “That doesn't mean you have to get completely smashed,” he mumbled defensively.  
  
Sirius sighed. “No, probably not. But it helps. I don't get much sleep when my mind's my own. I've got 13 years of nightmares waiting to get in. Believe me, that's a lot of nightmares.” He gave Harry a melancholy look. “No wonder they all think I'm bloody mad. Too long stewing in Azbakan. That does anyone's head in.”  
  
“You're not mad, Sirius. And you're getting better, aren't you?” said Harry softly.  
  
Sirius chewed his lip. “Maybe. Sometimes it's hard to tell. The company's a hell of a lot better here, but...”  
  
He trailed off, but Harry picked up the thread for him. “But you're stuck here in a house you hate and can't leave. You exchanged prison in Azkaban for a better cage in London.”  
  
“Yeah. That's kind of how it feels, actually. How do you— don't tell me, those bloody Dursleys!” spat Sirius, his face reddening.  
  
“It's not so bad,” Harry mumbled. “And I don't see them so much these days.”  
  
“Still too bloody often!” Sirius paused for a moment, then sighed. “Most people in Azkaban go mad after a while, in the high security wing. You're practically in the Dementors' laps; there's no respite from it. Even when they're gone, all your happy memories have had the emotion sucked out of them; you remember the what happened but you can't feel the happiness that went with them. It's like watching a black-and-white picture of a stranger's life. Gradually, the only things you can remember feeling are the bad times, the fear, the loneliness. There's plenty of that out there, loneliness. There's only yourself for company.  
  
“Do you know how I kept together, Harry? I was able to turn into Padfoot; Dementors don't have the same effect when you're not human. I could get some rest. But being an Animagus, you can't stay in your form for too long or you start to forget about being human. So you have to change back, and knowing what it's going to be like makes that harder.  
  
“You see, I knew the thoughts that were waiting for me. James and Lily were dead. I had betrayed Remus in the worst way, thinking that he was the spy. Peter had thrown years of friendship, everything, away to join Voldemort. And in doing so he gave up James and Lily. And once I realised that there was no chance of me getting out of Azkaban, I realised that I had lost my Godson, too. Oh yes, those thoughts were waiting, all right. The Dementors couldn't touch those ones.”  
  
Harry said nothing, not knowing what to say. There was a loud swallow, and Sirius blew another smoke ring. The bottle thumped down into the middle of the forgotten chess board. “I was just so bloody _angry_! Everything I had, everything I'd hoped for, the best friends I'd ever known, all gone at a stroke. Great Merlin, Peter... I still can't quite believe it. Sounds daft, doesn't it? But he was _my friend_! He was one of us. So maybe he wasn't the next Merlin, so what? He was a _Marauder_!” Sirius choked on the last word, and broke off for a moment. After a few deep breaths he continued in a lower tone.  
  
“I sat there in that bloody cell and I wondered, maybe it's not entirely Peter's fault? Once I calmed down and thought about it, I remembered that damned prophecy. Maybe the universe decided that it just had to be one of us and Peter got the short straw?” Sirius sighed. “Peter was always rather a 'short straw' sort of guy. I guess it's easier to think that way of the bloke we all loved, all the way from the very first day of Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry said nothing, uncomfortably aware that he thought of Ron and Hermione in the same terms. Would one of them turn against him? It was unthinkable. But then, so had Peter's treachery been to Sirius, and Remus, and his parents.  
  
“Don't.”  
  
Harry looked up to see Sirius looking at his steadily. “You've got to have your friends, Harry,” he said softly. “If you turn away from them, then Voldemort's already won. You can't let him rule your life.”  
  
Harry couldn't quite bring himself to meet Sirius' eyes. “I'm scared, Sirius,” he admitted.  
  
He heard the scrape of a chair on the stone flags, and Sirius' arms gently encircled him. “I don't blame you, kid. Believe it or not, so are the rest of us. That's why you need your friends. Everyone needs people they can trust, people they can rely on no matter what.”  
  
Harry sat quietly for a moment, slowly relaxing under the comforting hug. “Thanks,” he mumbled eventually. Sirius withdrew his arms and regained his seat, taking another pull from the bottle and tipping his chair back on two legs.  
  
“You're right to worry about old Voldie, Harry, but you can't let it stop you from living life. I mean, come on, you're fifteen now — who are the hot chicks you've got your eye on at Hogwarts?”  
  
Harry blushed brightly, thinking of Cho Chang, making Sirius laugh loudly.  
  
“Way-hey! Young Harry, making his disreputable old Godfather proud! Go get 'em, kid!”  
  
Harry remained resolutely silent, unwilling to even open his mouth. He felt like he could fry eggs on his forehead.  
  
Thankfully, after a minute Sirius let it slide. “Huh. Well, if you ever need to talk about things — or want advice — I'm always here.” He snorted sourly, “I'm _really_ always here. Somehow, I never saw Teen Counsellor in my future on Careers Day at Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry looked at him blankly, “What do you mean?”  
  
Sirius stilled and let the chair fall forward, taking the weight at the last second so that instead of a loud crash as the front legs hit the wooden floor, there was a gentle _tock_ which nevertheless echoed around the silent room. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he gave Harry a long look before reluctantly settling for, “Let's just say that you're not the only kid in this house who has trouble sleeping, sometimes.”  
  
A frown creased Harry's forehead, _Not the only kid who...?_ The sudden realisation made him flush. _Ginny, of course._ He'd never asked her what she'd gone through during her first year, but he'd caught her staring pensively at him a few times since. He'd always sort of assumed that it wasn't his business and that her parents had taken care of it, but looking back he couldn't believe he'd, he'd... forgotten about her? _I had Ron and Hermione to talk to, and even then I still had nightmares for ages. Who did Ginny have? How is it that I don't know?_  
  
Sirius nodded slowly, reading the realisation in his face. “Yeah. She's a tough kid, all right. She tries to pretend that it doesn't bother her any more, on the surface at least, but at night... at night, you can't stop where your dreams take you. From what she's told me, it's no wonder she doesn't sleep very well sometimes.”  
  
Harry felt sick. “How bad is it?” he asked tentatively.  
  
Sirius looked away, taking another swig from the bottle. “Best if you ask her that yourself, kiddo. Bad enough, is all I'll say.”  
  
“I dunno, it's kinda private. She'd hex me to pieces if she thought I was prying.”  
  
He thought Sirius would laugh, but instead he just looked thoughtful. “I don't think she would. She's been a pretty good friend to you this summer, hasn't she?”  
  
“Yeah. She's trying to help, and I think it's working. At least this way I can tell myself that I'm prepared, for all the good that it'll do.”  
  
Sirius shook his head. “Something else I should have thought of. Look, I don't trust Cornelius Fudge any further than I could throw him, but it's not just down to him so you should have a decent chance. The more prepared you are, the better — so I'll try to keep Molly off your back. You'll be fine.”  
  
“I hope so.”  
  
“One way or another, Harry, even if I have to go in there and get you out myself.”  
  
Harry tried to work out whether he was joking, but the older man simply looked thoughtful.  
  
After a moment, Sirius shook himself, “You should be getting some shut-eye rather than listen to me prattle on. Big day tomorrow; those doxies won't take care of themselves, you know.”  
  
Harry scowled at the thought of fighting more venomous vermin. “Don't remind me. 'Night, Sirius.”  
  
“Good night, Harry.”  
  
Harry had reached the door when he heard Sirius call his name, and turned.  
  
“Harry? About Ginny. I know what things are like when you get back to Hogwarts and you're with all your mates again and stuff, but... don't forget about her, yeah? There's some things that she can't talk about to many people, but I reckon you're one of them.”  
  
Harry had a lot to think about as he crept back upstairs.  
  


=====// \\\=====


	3. Reality is Writing the Cheques, and Cashing Them, Too

=====// \\\=====

It was over tea on Wednesday night that Mrs Weasley dropped the bombshell he had almost managed to forget about. “I've ironed your best clothes and left them on the end of your bed, Harry. Make sure you wash your hair tonight so that you look smart for your hearing tomorrow. A good first impression can do wonders,” she said with forced casualness.

Harry paused, the grilled chops in his stomach suddenly turning to lead. “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” he managed. Great Merlin, it really _was_ tomorrow! How on earth had he managed to forget that? The usual chatter around the table had ceased, and he felt the weight of their eyes on him.

“How am I getting there?” he asked tightly, trying to smother his sudden nerves.

“You'll be coming with me when I go to work, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley calmingly. “If we leave here a bit early, we should be at the Ministry by eight. You can wait with me in my office, if you like.”

“My hearing's not until half-past nine?” said Harry tentatively.

Mr. Weasley scowled. “Yes, well Cornelius Fudge is sticking his nose in, and I wouldn't put it past him to try to pull some sort of fast one if he thinks he'll benefit from it somehow. If you're not there to defend yourself, they could do anything! Hmm, on second thoughts, maybe we should go earlier?”

“I'm sure eight o'clock will be fine, Arthur. Even if Fudge wants to try something, he'd have to get it past Amelia Bones first, and bloody good luck with that!” said Tonks jauntily. “Chin up, Harry!”

Harry gave her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Tonks.”

“Well, Fudge's potential meddling aside, Amelia Bones will be the one questioning you. She’s Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but if you're polite and respectful she'll hear you out,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Amelia's tough, but she's one of the good guys,” Tonks added.

Harry nodded, still unable to think of anything to say. He could see Ginny giving him a speculative look, while Ron and especially Hermione looked worried. Sirius, too, looked deeply unhappy.

“If it comes to it, Harry, get away to Arthur's office and I'll come and get you myself,” he said grimly.

“You'll do no such thing, Sirius!” said Mrs. Weasley firmly. “Professor Dumbledore said-”

“Professor Dumbledore can go to hell!” Sirius snarled, standing up abruptly, his chair grating loudly on the flagstone floor. He gave her a wild look for a moment, and then stormed out.

Mrs. Weasley huffed, but simply watched him go. After an awkward silence, most of the table resumed eating, but between the two of them and the hearing, Harry couldn't bring himself to touch another thing.

=====// \\\=====

The second that dinner was over, Hermione dragged him into the library where Ron and Ginny were waiting. “Harry, are you sure you have everything ready for tomorrow? There must be something you haven't covered yet-”

“Hermione-” he started, but she rushed on, regardless.

“-Quite clear on those points of law and the references I gave you from-”

“Herrmione, I don't want to talk about it!” Harry said loudly.

“But-”

“Hermione, leave him be. He can make his own mind up,” said Ron.

“Oh, yes, I'm sure it's too much like work for _you_-” she snapped acidly.

Ron reddened. “Are you seriously trying to tell me I'm not worried about my best mate?” he demanded, leaning closer to her.

Harry felt a hand on his arm, and looked over to see Ginny. She jerked her head over to the corner and led him away from the bickering couple to the two comfortable chairs she had drawn up next to the chess board.

“White or Black?” she asked him calmly.

He was inexpressibly grateful as the game progressed that she simply sat in companionable silence, occasionally commenting on a good move and ignoring both the on-going warfare at the other end of the room and any talk of the hearing. Harry felt nervous enough about it already, and he felt that raking over it again would nearly bring him to a full-blown panic.

By the time they had reached a hard-fought stalemate, he had come to a decision. “Would you mind another round?” he asked Ginny. “If you set the board up again, I just need to go and take care of something.”

He slipped past Ron and Hermione at the other end of the room, Ron slouching in a chair determinedly trying to read an old _Daily Prophet_ while Hermione sulked nearby, leafing through _Rumpole's Tortuous Torts and Tautologies _in an absurdly pointedly-obvious fashion. _How the hell can someone read a book that _aggressively_ in silence_, Harry wondered.

He found Mrs. Weasley at the kitchen sink doing the washing up — by hand. He had noticed that she had taken to doing the dishes by hand recently, rather than by using magic as she had done at the Burrow, and wondered why. He was a little uncomfortable to see Sirius sitting in his usual chair, listening to a Quidditch game on the wireless.

“All right, Harry?”

“Fine thanks, Sirius. Erm, Mrs. Weasley, I wondered if I could have a word with you?”

She put down her dishcloth and looked over her shoulder at him. “Certainly, dear. What can I do for you?”

Harry fidgeted. “Um, I'd like to talk to you in private, if I may?” he said with an apologetic look at Sirius.

Sirius looked hurt for a second, before looking closely at him. “Everything OK, Harry?” he asked softly.

“Yeah. I just need to talk to Mrs. Weasley.

Sirius looked at him intently for a second, and then stood up and turned the wireless off. “I should probably go and make sure Buckbeak's settled,” he announced.

As the door closed behind him, Harry sighed. “I hate doing that to him,” he said, almost to himself.

“Sirius needs to remember that your life doesn't revolve around him. I know he means well, but still,” said Mrs. Weasley carefully, drying her hands on a tea towel and taking Sirius's chair at the kitchen table. “Now then, dear, what did you want to speak to me about?”

Harry sat at the far end of the table and took a deep breath. “I need to ask you a favour about tomorrow. I've been trying to prepare for this hearing all week, and I think I'd feel a lot better having someone there with me.”

“You won't be allowed anyone with you in the hearing, Harry, you know that?” she reminded him gently.

“Yeah, but even so...I'd like...with your permission, I'd like Ginny to come with me,”

Mrs. Weasley looked at him intently for a moment in silence. “Arthur will be there.”

“I know, and I'm very grateful, but-”

“But he's not quite the same.” Mrs. Weasley gave him that same, long look again, and he tried not to fidget. Eventually she asked, “Why Ginny?”

“Because it was her idea that I try to work out what I'm going to say and do, and she's worked really hard on it with me. Not just that, she's good at keeping her head when I feel like panicking..,” Harry trailed off, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks.

Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to speak a couple of times, and then evidently thought better of it. “I'll speak to Arthur when he gets home,” she said finally. “He popped out with Tonks after tea. They should be back in half an hour or so, so I'll come and find you then. Is that all right?”

It would have to do. At least she hadn't laughed — or worse, shouted. “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

Back in the library, he found that he and Ginny had been displaced at the chess board by Ron and Hermione. He took up Hermione's old chair, and shoved the heavy legal tome she had been reading underneath it out of sight. The less he had to think about that tonight, the better. Ginny was curled up in the corner with _Witch Weekly_, Crookshanks resting across her lap.

The room was silent, other than an occasional comment from the chess players and a rumbling purr from Crookshanks. Harry took up Ron's discarded _Daily Prophet_. It never ceased to amaze him how Ron and Hermione could argue over the tiniest of things but never did when they were actually competing against each other. He _did_ notice the way they were both hunched forward over their pieces, though.

Some time after he had moved onto the inside pages, he heard Ron saying quietly. “I don't think you want to do that, Hermione.”

Harry looked up to see Hermione's hand poised over a chess piece.

“Oh?” she said, pushing a lock of her thick, curly hair out of her face.

“You're going to take that pawn, aren't you? Look at that Rook, then look at that Knight and tell me where you're going wrong,” Ron's voice was quietly amused but non-confrontational.

“I...how did you know I was going to do that?”

Harry rolled his eyes. _As if the answer isn't obvious!_

“You're half playing yourself, you know?” Hermione continued, “I sometimes think I should ignore everything you say, just so you don't know what I'm going to do!”

Ron snorted. “We could try that if you like, but I think it'd be a pretty short game.”

Harry had thoroughly lost track of time by the time that Mr. Weasley popped his head around the door, looking tired and frazzled.

“Hallo, Harry! I've just been speaking to Molly; we've had a bit of a think about it, and I don't see that it can do any harm. You can bring Ginny, if you wish.”

Harry could almost feel the other three's ears prick up. “Thanks, Mr. Weasley.”

Mr. Weasley grinned. “No problem. Ginny, you should go and make sure you're ready for the morning.”

“What's this?” she asked curiously.

Harry could feel the curiosity swirling around the room crystallize, and swallowed hard. Somehow, he hadn't really thought they'd say, 'Yes'!

“I'd feel better if I had some company before the hearing tomorrow. Ginny, I asked your mum if you could come with me. If you want to, of course,” he mumbled.

Ginny just looked at him, gobsmacked. After a moment she blinked, then cleared her throat. “Yes, I will. Um, I'd better go and see what I've got clean.” With that she got up, carefully setting Crookshanks down in her place. She hurried out, not quite looking at him, and Mr. Weasley followed. Harry had an idea that it was to have a word with his daughter.

“What's all this, then?” asked Ron.

“You're taking Ginny with you to the hearing?” Hermione said at the same time.

Harry took a deep breath. “Yes. I knew I couldn't take all of you, but I thought I might have a chance if I just asked for one of you to come with me.”

“And you chose _Ginny_?” asked Hermione disbelievingly.

Harry ignored her, watching the play of emotions across Ron's face. Eventually the tall redhead just shrugged. “Good luck, mate,” he said simply.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said quietly. He had wondered how Ron would take it, but from his reaction perhaps Harry should be more concerned by the spluttering coming from Hermione. “Problem, Hermione?”

“Well... no, but...I'm surprised, I suppose.”

“It's his choice, Hermione,” said Ron, turning back to the chess board.

“I know that, Ron, but...”

“So then what's your problem?” said Harry testily.

“Steady on, mate!” said Ron, trying to act as peacemaker. Hermione wasn't listening, though.

“Do you really think Ginny's the best person?”

“Yes, actually I do,” snapped Harry, rapidly losing patience.

“You need to be prepared-” she started, but Ron just rolled his eyes.

“I don't believe it! You're _jealous_. Of _Ginny_!” he muttered.

“Shut up, Ron! I am not!”

“You bloody are! You're in a snit because you think you should go instead of her.”

“Hermione, I have my reasons for asking Ginny, not least the sheer amount of hard work and help she's given me. If you don't like that, then you're just going to have to live with it,” Harry said emphatically.

“It's not like that, Harry,” said Hermione, hurt. “I just want to help.”

“Yeah, well it's not sounding like it. It sounds more like you don't think Ginny's good enough. And I thought she was a friend of yours?” Harry said, feeling his temper rising.

“_Jea-lous_,” Ron muttered sing-song under his breath.

“Oh, shut up, Ron!”

“No, I reckon Harry's got it spot-on, Hermione. How about you stop trying to solve all his problems for him and let him make his own decisions? Because that's what it comes down to, isn't it? No-one else could possibly be as good as you can!”

“You're one to talk!” Hermione raged. “You're just happy to sit there and let everything fall apart so long as you don't have to raise a finger!”

“No, I'm prepared to trust my mate that he knows what he's doing,” said Ron heatedly. “And if he wants my help, he'll get it the second he _asks_ for it! This is like you and those wretched bloody house elves again — _you_ know better than everyone, _including them_, and you won't listen to anyone that tells you otherwise!”

“They've suffered centuries of brain-washing which has taken away their free choice, let alone their basic right to freedom! And leave the house-elves out of this!”

“Oh, so you think Harry's been brain-washed by Ginny? Oh, that _is_ nice!” Ron snorted.

“For the love of God, you two, can you put World War Three aside for a few minutes?” Harry groaned in frustration. “If you want a bloody argument, go somewhere else, because I'm sick of listening to you!”

“We're not arguing!” Hermione insisted ridiculously. Harry gave her a flat look, and after a moment she caved in. “All right, maybe we were arguing a bit, but-”

“You're always bloody arguing! There's barely a moment when you're _not_ arguing! Do you know what? That's one of the reasons I chose Ginny, because if I had the two of you along with me you'd spend the whole time arguing over every single little thing _and it'd drive me bloody mental_!” snarled Harry, all patience gone. “You bicker and squabble and moan and nag each other _endlessly_ because you both love the sound of each other's voices!”

“Er-” said Hermione, turning pink.

“No we don't,” muttered Ron, turning a similar shade.

“Yes, you do! _Yes, you do_! Tell you what, I'm going to make this really simple for you, guys, so hang on to your hats. Hermione — Ron's crazy about you.”

“_Harry_!” Ron yelped, his ears a spectacular shade of red. “Look mate-”

“Shut up!” Harry overrode him. “Ron — Hermione's nuts about you. There! See? How bloody hard was that? Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps you can stop picking at each other the whole time and maybe just _talk_ to each other for a change!”

Hermione, if anything her blush even deeper than Ron's, appeared to be trying to disappear into the back of the couch. “Harry... um, look, Ron and I... well... uh...”

“Gee, thanks for ruining my life, mate,” muttered Ron, scowling darkly at Harry. “Do you think you could have made it any more humiliating?”

“So you admit it! Halle-bloody-lujah! It's a miracle!” Harry crowed. “The whole of Hogwarts will be on its knees tonight giving thanks!”

“I don't fancy Hermione!” Ron blurted.

“Yes, I'm sure I'd never be good enough for you,” Hermione sniped, although there were what looked suspiciously like tears in her eyes. Harry let out a strangled roar of frustration.

“Yes, you do! _Yes, you bloody well do_! My God, it's the most obvious thing in the entire history of obviousness ever! And yet we had to suffer _a whole bloody year_ of histrionics last year because you're both too stubborn or too bloody thick to admit it. You two and that wretched, _bloody_ Ball, and Viktor 'Grouchy Bastard' _sodding_ Krum! It's as obvious as a great, big obvious thing setting off fireworks in the Great Hall at Hogwarts at dinner time, whilst stripped completely naked and painted head to foot in purple woad, dancing on the table tops and singing 'I'm The Most Painfully Obvious Thing Ever' at the top of it's lungs! It's as obvious as _Hagrid_ trying to keep a _secret_!”

The two flinched, and as Harry gesticulated wildly, he distantly wondered if the last shot had gone too far. He'd built up enough of a head of steam that it didn't stop him continuing, though.

“I don't care what you have to do, but for the love of Merlin and his dancing gerbils, _get on with it_! Go and lock yourselves in a room somewhere and suck each other's tonsils out, if you must! I don't care if you go upstairs _and shag each other_! Just get it over with so the rest of us can get some bloody _peace_!”

Panting, Harry broke off. By now, Ron and Hermione were looking at him with expressions of utter horror. Actually, they weren't quite looking directly at him...

Slowly he turned around and there, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a stern expression on her face, was Molly Weasley.

There was a very pregnant pause.

It gave birth to an embarrassed silence, which was quickly followed by a raft of brothers and sisters which all quickly grew together and became one giant, steaming mass of mortification.

“While I may disagree with some of the things Harry has said, Ron, Hermione, you both really do need to stop needling each other if we're ever to have peace in this house,” Mrs. Weasley said firmly. “Now, I've made some hot chocolate, and it's sitting on the stove in the kitchen if you want some. After that, I think it's time you three were getting on to bed.”

Ron and Hermione bolted for the door, leaving Harry standing alone. He could feel his face flaming. “Uh... I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley-”

“Don't worry about it, Harry dear, I'm sure we've all thought the same thing from time to time recently, if not quite so emphatically,” she said. “However, as the mother of seven children I will say this; For the love of Merlin, please don't under any circumstances _ever_ encourage any of my children to engage in pre-marital sex! Now, I think that hot chocolate's still waiting.”

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry mumbled, unable to meet her eye.

“Good lad.”

She patted him on the shoulder as he slunk guiltily out of the library. Behind him, he heard the door closed very carefully followed by shrieks of hysterical laughter. He sighed as he started down the hallway. In some ways, he'd got off reasonably lightly.

He entered the kitchen to a standing ovation from Sirius, Fred, and George. He noted that Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen.

“Bravo, Harry, that was simply beautiful!” said Sirius with a wide smile. It made him look years younger, Harry thought.

“Poetic brilliance.” added Fred.

“Elegantly eloquent,” said George, seizing Harry's hand and pumping it vigorously.

“Thanks, I guess,” said Harry. “But do you think it'll work?”

Fred and George looked at each other. “Nah!” they said in unison.

“Nice try, though,” said Sirius.

Harry winced. “They're going to hate me.”

“Probably!” the twins agreed cheerfully. Sirius gave them a quelling look and then came and put an arm around Harry's shoulders.

“Don't worry about it, Harry. They might be a bit put out with you, but it'll blow over soon enough.”

“I hope so,” he muttered dispiritedly. The thought of cocoa had lost its appeal. “I think I'll go up to bed. Good night, everyone.”

Upstairs, the light was off and he could see Ron's form in the other bed, very obviously feigning sleep. With a resigned sigh, he started to prepare for bed. He would need all his faculties sharp tomorrow, and the only way for that was to get some sleep.

=====// \\\=====

Harry tossed and turned ceaselessly, his eyes ever drawn to the battered alarm clock clanking steadily on the dresser between his and Ron's beds. The hands advanced at a glacial pace, and while there were instances where the hands jumped forward and he knew that he must have slept, the twanging of his nerves and vague sense of panic meant that he got no rest. Finally, with the clock creeping towards half-past six, he threw back the blankets and headed for the bathroom, desperately hoping that the shower would clear his throbbing head and ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

Cleaner in body if not lighter in spirit, he dressed hurriedly and slipped downstairs. He expected to be the first one there, but instead he found Mr. Weasley, Tonks, Sirius, and Remus Lupin all sat around the table clutching cups of tea while Mrs. Weasley bustled around the stove. Mr. Weasley had a copy of the Prophet folded to an inside page in front of him, but as Harry entered he tucked it out of the way under his leg and said good morning, followed in a ragged chorus by the others. The Weasleys were both looking alert, even if Mrs. Weasley was still in her dressing gown, but the others were hollow-eyed and dishevelled.

“Good morning, everyone,” he mumbled, slipping into the nearest seat.

“There we are, dear — eat up!”

A plate landed in front of him, piled with bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, beans… there was even a fried slice. Meanwhile, platters of food whisked themselves from the counter to the table for the others. “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

“All right, Harry?” asked Tonks, her hair a curly blonde this morning. It was jarring to see her looking so _normal_.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just not sure if I feel hungry, that's all,” he said hesitantly, trying not to sound ungrateful. Luckily, Ron and Hermione arrived simultaneously to provide a distraction, Ron looking bleary-eyed and Hermione's hair even more unruly than usual.

“You may not feel like it just now, but you'll need it,” Mrs. Weasley said briskly. “Just make a start and try not to think about things too much.”

Harry smiled wanly and started cutting up some bacon. If nothing else, at least he'd look like he was trying to eat. Hermione was watching him intently but didn't say anything. Ron, on the other hand...

“Go on, eat up, mate. You know what Mum's like — if you don't finish it, she won't let you go!”

“_Ronald_!” It was something of a dead heat between Hermione and Mrs Weasley, but Ron just smirked, and Harry felt a smile creep out.

“Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up brown sauce, then!”

His mood lightened a little, he tried to focus on the food and quickly realised that he was hungrier than he'd imagined. Sirius and Remus were in some sort of friendly argument about the changes in Muggle music, and Ginny's entry almost went unnoticed. She smiled at him and slipped into a chair at the far end of the table, and started assembling a bacon sandwich in silence. With the wireless burbling away in the background to itself it might almost have been a normal day.

Finally, Mr. Weasley pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Well now, I think it was time we were going.”

Conversation in the room came to an immediate halt, leaving only an awkward silence in its place.

“Back in a minute,” Harry mumbled, hurrying upstairs to change his tee-shirt for the better of his school uniform shirts, crisply ironed by Mrs. Weasley the previous night. It wasn't exactly a dress shirt, but it was the best he had. He'd put off wearing it until after breakfast to prevent any last-minute disasters like throwing his breakfast all over himself — or throwing up all over himself. Suddenly, all the nerves that had seeped away over the last half-hour came flooding back. He let out a shuddering breath and checked himself in the mirror one last time, smoothing the collar.

“Very nice, young man,” the mirror purred approvingly.

He decided to take it at its word. Downstairs, he found Ginny and her father waiting in the hall while the rest of them were crowded in the kitchen doorway.

“Are we ready then? Harry, do you have a coat?” asked Mr. Weasley. He was wearing an old bomber jacket above pinstripe trousers, a slightly incongruous look. Mutely, Harry shook his head.

“Here.” Sirius held out a dark blue trenchcoat, and he slid his arms into the sleeves. It was rather too large for him, but it would do.

“Well, then,” he began, and ran out of words.

Hermione darted forward and squeezed him tightly. “Good luck, Harry!”

Behind her, Ron held up a hand dropped it awkwardly. “Yeah. It'll all be over in a couple of hours and you'll be wondering what all the fuss was.”

“I'm sure everything will be fine,” Lupin added reassuringly.

Harry smiled weakly, getting a farewell hug from Mrs. Weasley, but Sirius just looked at him rigidly, his jaw clamped firmly shut. Harry nodded. He could imagine the older man's feelings.

“Right,” said Harry. “Well … see you later, then.” With that, he followed Mr. Weasley out into the street, Ginny on his heels.

The sky was shedding a grimy grey light, soft and sourceless, around the battered buildings of Grimmauld Place. Frankly, it was the best light for it, and even then it looked a grotty and beaten-up little backwater. Stepping away from the porch after Mr. Weasley, Harry wondered again how on earth Sirius's family had decided that _here_, of all places, was the perfect spot to set up their ultra-snobby, Muggle-hating household. Maybe it had once been much grander. Maybe their malaise had slowly seeped out, poisoning their neighbours even as it poisoned them, too.

He shook his head. If Sirius couldn't understand them, there wasn't any hope that he was going to, and instead he concentrated on stepping around a pile of disintegrating rubbish bags. A hand touched his arm, making him jump, and he looked over at Ginny. She was either reassuring him or using him to keep her balance on the uneven pavement, but she dropped her hand again a few moments later like it was the most natural thing in the world. _Maybe it is_. He gave her a bleated smile.

“You look nice today.” _Argh! Merlin's balls, where did that come from_!? Not that it wasn't true, but-

“Well, last time I was hauled in front of the Ministry I turned up looking like an unmade bed, so I thought I'd try something different this time,” she said drily.

Harry nearly laughed, but there was something in her face when she said it, and instead he felt a sick swoop in his stomach. “Your first year...”

For a fraction of a second her face screwed up like she was going to cry, then it was gone again. “Yeah.”

Guilt warred with shame inside his chest. “Ginny, I'm so sorry-” he began, but she cut across him.

“Another time, Harry,” she said stiffly, stopping at the kerb next to her father to look both ways. When they were safely across, she dropped back to walk beside him again. “Suffice to say, I've met Amelia Bones,” she said in a more normal voice. “She's a bit like Professor McGonagall — don't dare cross her. Otherwise, she's OK.”

“Thanks.” It was a surprisingly helpful description if it was accurate. Ginny usually was. He glanced over at her again. She was wearing a long, black skirt, and a powder-blue blouse peeked out past the collar of her coat. Her long, red hair was twisted and piled up on her head, revealing tiny studs in her ears, and he wasn't sure if she was wearing any make-up — which probably meant that she was. She looked cool, collected, and altogether grown up. He felt like an awkward, untidy lump. With stupid, sticky-up hair. Damn it.

Ahead of them, Mr. Weasley had stopped at an intersection and was turning a map back and forth in his hands, muttering, “I'm sure it's down this way somewhere...”

“Err… haven't you been this way before?” Harry asked nervously, his imagination starting to run away with him. 'Sorry, I got lost' wasn't going to cut it if he was late for his hearing!

“Yes, yes, of course! Once. Now, I _think_ it's this way. What do you make of it, Harry?” the older man asked, passing over the map.

“It would help if I knew where we are,” Harry pointed out, passing it back. “Mad-Eye brought me on a broom and he barely even told me his own name, let alone where we were going.”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” said Mr. Weasley, carefully folding the map up and jamming it into an inside pocket of his coat. “Oh well, I'm sure it's this way, I remember that fellytone post with the sign.” With that, Mr. Weasley turned left and set off again, Harry and Ginny trailing behind him.

Encouragingly, this street was wider and busier than the back streets they had left. A few other pedestrians walked in the same direction, chins down against the damp morning chill, and the occasional car trundled past, their tyres hissing on the wet tarmac.

“He does know where he's going, doesn't he?” he asked Ginny in a low voice after a few paces.

She grinned at him, “Of course he does! He does this on purpose, every time.”

“What? Why?”

“He's got _seven kids_, Harry! He's learned the hard way to keep them all occupied or something will explode. _Especially_ with Fred and George around.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. “It's a miracle the Burrow's still standing isn't it?”

She laughed, “You have no idea!”

They passed a small parade of shops, their windows hidden behind roller shutters, and rounded a corner. Up ahead, Harry saw the familiar red-and-blue sign for the Underground and, as they got nearer, a steady stream of Muggles marching beneath the sign and down into the earth. Together, the three of them joined the crowds and plunged down the grimy stairs into the busy mass of commuters.

The concourse below road-level was noisy and jammed with bustling workers. They threaded their way through the crowds to one of the automated ticket machines, where Mr. Weasley started patting his pockets distractedly for money and rhapsodising over Muggle ingenuity.

“Watch this,” Ginny whispered to Harry, leaning close so he could hear her over the din. “Dad, what's that for?” she asked when Mr. Weasley was engrossed in buying their tickets.

“What's that, my dear?”

Ginny asked him a series of questions about the machine, her face a picture of innocence, while Mr. Weasley's fingers continued to stab at the right buttons despite the distraction. Harry smiled — so it _was_ all an act, he had wondered!

“Ah! Well, here we go, three tickets. Marvellous, isn't it? Brilliantly inventive!” He led them over to the barriers, while Harry and Ginny exchanged a knowing grin behind him.

Down on the platform, they were swept onto the train in a great rush of humanity. Initially, they were all able to stand together but a few more stops and the crush was so great that Mr. Weasley got pushed down into the carriage away from them. Harry found himself standing uncomfortably close to Ginny, hemmed in by a tall man in a pinstriped suit and a chubby lady with a massive handbag. The lurching and jolts of the train jostled them all against each other from time to time, but at each station even more people crammed themselves on.

Finally, the train slowed to a halt at a central station and the opening of the doors triggered a mass stampede for the platform. Ginny had to cling to Harry to avoid being swept away as their fellow passengers flooded out, and they nearly missed that Mr. Weasley had already stepped out onto the platform.

“Come on, you two! This is our station.”

Unsteadily, the two teens stepped off and shuffled to the end of the platform and the long escalators to the surface.

“You OK, Ginny?” he asked, as they rose toward the surface.

She looked up at him from the next step down, her hand clenched white on the escalator's handrail and her face pale. “Muggles really do this every day?” she whispered. “They're insane!”

Harry grinned. “They have to get home, too, so they do it _twice_!”

Ginny let out a quiet moan, “Oh dear Merlin and his sainted underpants, please let us go home again by floo!”

They emerged onto a busy street lined with tall, imposing buildings. The roads were jammed with traffic of all sizes — cars, taxis, motorcycles, even the odd suicidally-brave cyclist — and neatly-dressed Muggles thronged the pavements. _This looks like the right sort of place_, thought Harry. _It is the Ministry of Magic, after all, so it's not like they're going to be short of Muggle-repelling charms or disillusionment spells. If they're going to have a building in the middle of London, it might as well be an impressive one_.

He was looking around, trying to work out if there was a building that the eyes of the Muggles around them slid past without registering, when Mr. Weasley led them down a small side-alley and through a loading yard, coming out into a dingy, graffiti-laden dead end with a lop-sided telephone box in one corner, its red paint chipped and battered and some of its glass panes missing.

“Ah, here we are,” said Mr. Weasley, pointing at the telephone box. “You kids first.”

_You have _got _to be kidding me_, thought Harry. _This? This is the Ministry of Magic_? Cautiously, he stepped into the little box, expecting to pass through a charm of some sort, but instead he simply bumped into the end of the box. Ginny squeezed in next to him, then Mr. Weasley last of all. By the time he closed the door, they could barely move independently.

Mr. Weasley was trying to wiggle a hand into his pocket. “I know I've got 20p in here somewhere...”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Dad! Why didn't you find it before you got in?”

There was a brief, embarrassed silence. “Er… yes. Right, of course. Hold that thought.”

He pushed his way back out again, leaving Ginny to huff indignantly to Harry, “Honestly!”

Harry tried to hid his smile at the fierce scowl on her face.

Moments later, Mr. Weasley was back, mumbling apologies as he poked the coin into the slot, lifted the receiver, and dialed a number. “Now then, Six…” he waited for the dial to whirr back to its stop and continued, “two… four… four… two.”

There was a click and a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not from the receiver in Mr. Weasley’s hand, but as though an invisible woman was jammed in there with them.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“Er… Arthur Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. I'm escorting Harry Potter, who has been asked to attend a disciplinary hearing. And my daughter, Ginny…”

“Thank you,” said the disembodied voice. “Visitors, please take a badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw something slide out of the metal chute where returned coins usually appeared and drop onto the floor, followed by a second one. He looked at Ginny, but neither of them had enough space to bend down. By twisting his shoulders slightly, he could see the one on top: It was a square, silver badge with 'Harry Potter, Disciplinary Hearing' on it.

“We might have to get those on the way out,” said Mr. Weasley awkwardly. Meanwhile, the cool voice was still speaking.

“Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

Harry felt a slight judder and looked up just as the pavement passed above the glass windows of the telephone box and darkness closed over their heads. He swallowed, his heart racing, but all he could do was wait. After about a minute, a chink of light illuminated his feet and swiftly rose up his body until he was bathed in light again, his eyes blinking furiously at the abrupt change.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,” said the woman’s voice.

_Yeah, right_, thought Harry.

=====// \\\=====

  



	4. The Ministry of Meddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Certain sentences in the atrium are lifted from the book, but have been edited, altered, expanded, etc. as much as possible.

=====// \\\=====

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr. Weasley was half-catapulted out of it, swiftly followed by Harry and Ginny. They found themselves in a long hall, thronging with witches and wizards. Overhead, golden symbols and sigils flowed sinuously through a bright blue ceiling. Green fire glowed and flickered on either side of the hall amidst wooden panelling as people lined up to floo out from ornate fireplaces on the right-hand side, while many more were being spat out from the fireplaces on the left-hand side like shelling peas.

Ginny pushed something into his hand, and he looked down to see the silver badge with his name on it. He pinned it to the pocket of his shirt and continued to look around as he followed her and her father. In the middle of the hall was a large, ornate golden fountain. A group of statues clustered in the middle, a larger than life-size witch and wizard surrounded by various adoring magical creatures. Water sprouted from the humans' wands and various points of the magical creatures to add the constant hiss of running water to the clatter of hurrying footsteps. Harry noted that the fountain was almost universally ignored by the mostly glum-faced commuters.

“Have you ever seen a centaur look at a witch or wizard like that without a few dozen industrial-strength _Confundus _charms?” Ginny said in a half-whisper.

Harry grinned. “Well, it _is_ the Ministry of Magic — the home of seriously-powerful enchantments. Now we know what they need them for!” She smiled back and gave him a friendly nudge.

Mr. Weasley had been leading them to the far end, which was lined with elaborate golden gates, but he veered off to one side toward a desk on the left, over which hung a sign saying 'SECURITY'. A badly shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up as they approached over his Daily Prophet.

“I’m escorting a couple of visitors,” said Mr. Weasley, gesturing toward Harry and Ginny.

“Step over here, please,” said the wizard in a bored voice, folding his paper messily and climbing to his feet.

Feeling a sudden burst of nerves, Harry shuffled a little closer and the wizard produced a long, thin, flexible golden rod from his desk to pass it over Harry’s front and back. Apparently satisfied, he tucked the golden rod away and held out his hand.

“Wand, please.”

Harry complied, and the wizard dropped it onto a strange brass instrument, which looked something like a set of scales with only one dish. It buzzed and shook, and after a few seconds, a narrow strip of parchment shot out of a slot in the base. The wizard tore this off and squinted at the writing upon it.

“Eleven inches, holly and phoenix-feather, been in use four years. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Harry nervously.

The wizard puffed out his cheeks and impaled the slip of parchment on a brass spike on his desk. “I keep this, you get this back,” he added, thrusting the wand back at Harry.

“Thank you.”

“Hang on...” said the wizard slowly. His eyes had darted from the silver visitor’s badge on Harry’s chest to his forehead.

“My turn, I think,” said Ginny, slipping in front of Harry and allowing him to back away from the man's inquisitive gaze. “So,” she said cheerfully, “This is supposed to be Security, is it?”

“What do you mean,” the man asked distractedly, trying to look past her at Harry, who was rapidly retreating behind Arthur.

“Well, you know, there's all sorts going on in the world at the moment, what with Sirius Black on the loose, Death Eater attacks, and so on, and we just waltz in and get a recorded announcement that we're supposed to check our wands?”

“Uh...” The security guard looked rather unnerved by her sunny smile as he waved his golden rod over her.

“Lets be honest, the only reason we're here doing _this_ is that we're, well, honest.” Ginny continued earnestly. “If we'd just decided to head for the elevators, would you have noticed?”

“I- I-, uh, if _I_ didn't then _someone_ would have noticed.”

“_Eventually_,” she pointed out, drawing the word out almost mockingly. Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. _Classic Ginny!_

“Look, I don't make the rules, Miss, I just enforce them!” he burst out, nettled. “Wand, please.”

Ginny handed it over and continued, “Yes, about that. So we get our wands weighed — and then you just give them straight back to us so we can march through the Ministry, doing whatever we like with them? How is that supposed to work?”

“Ginny, I think that's enough,” Arthur sighed in a long-suffering voice that Harry thought contained a faint note of laughter. “Sorry about this, Eric.”

“You're probably right, Dad. Still, it's reassuring to know that if You-Know-Who walks in and remembers to get his wand checked, they’ll know who it was when he makes a few heads explode. That's very reassuring.”

“I've known Arthur for years! And that's Harry Potter, he's hardly going to be You-Know-Who in disguise, is he?” Eric snapped defensively.

Ginny smiled sweetly. “And how do you know — have you checked?”

“Ginny, before I get a Probity probe somewhere I _really_ don't fancy it, how about you let him do his job? Whether you think it's absolutely watertight or not?” Harry said in a pained voice.

“Oh, all right,” she agreed airily, taking her wand back when it was hurriedly thrust at her.

“Thank you, Eric,” said Mr. Weasley firmly, grasping both youngsters by the shoulders and steering them towards the golden gates at the end of the main reception hall. Passing through the gates, they found a dead-end antechamber lined with at least twenty elevators. Hordes of witches and wizards were packed into the antechamber, waiting their turn to pile into the next available elevator. Harry, Ginny, and Mr. Weasley joined a queue at random; it was impossible to tell which, if any of them, was moving faster.

Several minutes passed as elevators came and went until they reached the front of the line, watching the number displayed over the elevator doors tick back towards 'Atrium'. At last, there was a rattle and a clang, and the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a large, bearded man clutching what looked like a perfectly-normal chicken, which was clucking complacently in his arms. “Morning, Arthur!” he said cheerfully.

Mr. Weasley went to step forward, then hesitated. “Morning, Bob! What have you got there?”

Harry noted that nobody else was in a hurry to get on, either. The reason for this became apparent when the chicken abruptly sneezed and a three-foot long jet of flame shot out of its beak. Both Harry and Ginny jumped back in alarm, and a wizard standing next to them let out a shriek.

“It's a little bit complicated,” said Bob nonchalantly, into the sudden, shocked silence.

“So I see,” said Mr. Weasley, like this sort of thing was an everyday occurrence, “It's all right, I think we'll take the next one.”

Bob shrugged. “Fair enough. Give my regards to Molly!” he said, as the doors slid closed again.

“Do you think he carries that chicken around on purpose so he doesn't get squashed in the elevators?” Ginny muttered to Harry. He grinned, and a witch standing next to them overheard and laughed.

A minute later, another lift clattered to a halt two doors down from them, and they joined a gaggle of witches and wizards that piled into it. The doors heaved shut and the lift jerked into motion while the now-familiar woman's voice announced, “Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.”

The lift doors opened, and Harry caught a glimpse of an untidy-looking corridor over the shoulders of the other packed into the lift, with a Quidditch poster hanging on the adjacent wall. One of the wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of broomsticks, squeezed himself out of the crush and disappeared down the corridor. Moments later, the doors closed and the lift juddered upward again.

The process repeated over a number of floors, and Harry let the woman's voice wash over him, only picking up on some of the more arresting departmental names. _Ludicrous Patents Office. Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee_. _Obliviator Headquarters_ (Harry couldn't restrain a shudder, thinking of Gilderoy Lockheart and what he had so nearly inflicted on Harry and Ron in their second year). Harry's ears pricked up when he finally heard, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

“Ah, here we go, you two,” said Mr. Weasley, and they stepped out of the lift into a corridor lined with doors. Harry was startled to see sunlight flooding in from a large window.

“Uh, Mr. Weasley, aren't we underground?”

“Yes, we are,” he replied cheerily, “Those are enchanted windows; Magical Maintenance decide what view we’re getting; it changes most days. We had two months looking out onto a disused Muggle industrial estate in Luton last time they had a pay dispute. This way.”

They turned a corner, through a pair of heavy oak doors, and emerged in a cluttered, open area divided into cubicles, which were buzzing with hushed voices. Paper aeroplanes were zooming in and out of cubicles, and a lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS. Harry would have liked to have stayed and had a closer look, but Mr. Weasley continued on through a second set of oak doors, into another passage, turned left, marched along another corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end, where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished brass plaque reading MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTEFACTS.

Mr. Weasley’s office seemed to be slightly smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had been crammed inside it and there was barely room to squeeze around them because the walls were lined with overflowing filing cabinets. A Muggle calendar on the wall peeked out from behind more tottering piles of files on top of the cabinets. Higher on the walls above the tide-line of paperwork were several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled engine, an Underground map, and a diagram showing how to wire a plug.

Mr. Weasley’s desk was nearly as swamped as the filing cabinets. Sitting in his overflowing in-tray was an old toaster that was hiccuping in a disconsolate way and emitting occasional, small puffs of smoke, and a pair of empty leather gloves that were twiddling their thumbs. Ginny had picked up a framed photograph from beside the in-tray and was scowling at it sourly. Curious, Harry peeked over her shoulder and was surprised to find it was photograph of the Weasley family. Perhaps the reason for her glowering was that, true to life, Percy appeared to have walked out of it. The git.

“We haven’t got a window,” said Mr. Weasley apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. “We’ve asked, but they don’t seem to think we need one. Tell you what, why don't we drop off our jackets and then check in with Amelia Bones' office? Just to let them know we've arrived. It's just along the corridor.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged a look, and Ginny shrugged. Wordlessly, the two teens followed Mr. Weasley back through the maze of corridors and, Harry was excited to note, into the Auror Headquarters. He found it rather disheartening to realise that it was an anonymous cube-farm with little to recommend it; a few witches and wizards were hunched over their desks, talking softly to their Dictaquills, but none of them looked up as the unusual trio passed.

Finally, they reached a doorway in a corner of the office. Mr. Weasley knocked on the open door before poking his head around and leading them inside. A motherly, middle-aged woman was sitting at a small desk with several neat piles of manilla folders on it, and she looked up and smiled brightly as they entered. _Surely that's not Amelia Bones?_ thought Harry.

That thought was quashed by the booming voice that echoed from a second doorway directly behind the woman at the desk, making her flinch.

“If that's Cornelius again, Miss Dingaway, he can-”

The secretary rushed to head off any indiscretion, “It's Arthur Weasley, Madam Bones!”

“Arthur? Huh. He's going to just _love_ this, too,” came the voice from the inner office, fractionally quieter this time.

“Everything all right, Faye?” Mr. Weasley asked, his face creasing in worry.

“Um… not… exactly,” the woman said nervously, with an apologetic look at Harry.

“You might as well send them in, Miss Dingaway, I'll tell them myself,”

The woman blew out a breath. “Well. Best not to keep her waiting this morning, Arthur.”

“Thanks, Faye.”

Harry was distinctly nervous by this stage, and a touch on his elbow made him jump, but it was only Ginny. He gulped a deep breath and together, the two of them followed her father into the inner office.

Whereas order prevailed in Miss Dingaway's office, in here things were more chaotic. Files and paperwork covered the large, expensive-looking green-topped desk that dominated the room, while the walls were covered in maps dotted with flags and pins and notes. A stern-looking woman with iron grey hair sat ram-rod straight in a large leather office chair behind the desk, a monocle in one eye, nearly silhouetted by the light that flooded in the floor-length window behind her. The view was a soothing, sunlit forest glade, but Harry thought that having the light behind her only made her more intimidating — and that was exactly the way she liked it.

“Good morning, Madam Bones,” Arthur said, a little nervously. “I brought Harry in with me this morning. For his hearing. I just thought I'd let you know that he'd arrived and we're ready whenever you are. And this is my daughter, Ginny.”

The woman fixed her piercing gaze on Ginny. “I remember, Arthur. Keeping out of trouble, young lady?”

She swallowed but didn't flinch and met the older woman's eye. “I'm doing my best, Madam Bones,” she said softly. Harry was a little shocked to see Ginny looking pale and shaken — then again, no doubt it brought back memories of her first year. He didn't have much time to think about that, as the woman turned her attention to him.

“And you, Mr. Potter. I've heard about you from my niece, Susan. Not unaccustomed to getting into sticky situations, I understand?”

Unlike Ginny, he wilted a bit under the force of her glare. “Um… not by choice, Madam Bones,” he replied hesitantly.

“Well, you're in one now. Arthur, I'm glad you stopped in as it saved me sending a memo. I've just had Cornelius Fudge in here about the boy's hearing; he's arranged for a full trial for the boy down in the court rooms.”

Mr. Weasley spluttered in disbelief, while Madam Bones gave Harry a surprisingly sympathetic look. “Whatever the circumstances, it's absolute nonsense for an offence of this sort. I tried to talk him out of it, Mr. Potter, but he insisted, and I'm afraid that's going to be that.”

“Can he do that?” Mr. Weasley demanded, aghast. “I mean, it's a simple juvenile matter!”

“I know, Arthur, and I fully agree with you. Unfortunately, Cornelius is the Minister, and with the recent changes to his powers it seems he can do whatever he damn well likes.”

Feeling that he ought to say something, Harry blurted, “What… what happens now?” His voice cracked a little on the first word, and he forced himself to start again.

Madam Bones eyed him thoughtfully. “I'm afraid you'll have to go down to the courtroom waiting area on Level Nine, Mr. Potter. You check in, and then you'll have to wait until your case is called.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to panic. “Thank you, Madam Bones.”

If anything, she sat up even straighter in her seat, “Don't thank me, Mr. Potter, it should not have come to this at all. All I can say is that I hope you're well prepared.”

“Ginny's been helping me,” he said, his voice faltering a little. He glanced over at her and although she still looked pale, she unobtrusively touched his elbow, making him feel a little less alone.

At that moment, a folded paper aeroplane zoomed in through the door and started batting its nose against Mr. Weasley's arm. With a distracted sigh, he snatched it out of the air and unfolded it. “‘Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.’ Oh, for heaven's sake, not _now_! This is getting ridiculous!”

“A regurgitating toilet?” Harry asked.

“Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, scowling. “We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush and instead of everything disappearing… well, you can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those, those pumbles, I think they’re called? You know, the ones who mend pipes and things?”

“Plumbers?”

“Exactly, yes, but of course they’re baffled. I only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.”

“Be that as it may, Arthur, I think you'd best get young Harry down to the waiting area first. It may sound trivial to you, Mr. Potter, but it's yet another incident of Muggle-baiting — and the frequency is going up fast. Arthur, I'll need a full report — and preferably the little twits' wands, when you catch up with them.”

“Of course, Madam Bones. Unless there's anything else? Harry, Ginny, we'd better get going.”

Mr. Weasley led them back through the Auror Headquarters and over to the elevators, his face locked in a worried frown.

“What was that about 'like Professor McGonagall'?” Harry whispered to Ginny. “She makes McGonagall look like a pussy-cat!”

“She _is_ a pussy-cat, you've seen her Animagus,” Ginny pointed out drily.

Harry let out a sudden bark of laughter that caught him by surprise. “You know what I mean.”

Despite the much-needed laugh, Harry's guts were well and truly churning by the time the elevator rumbled past the eighth floor.

“'Level Nine — Courtrooms, Pre-Trial Detention and Holding Cells. Courtroom Waiting Area,” the disembodied voice announced.

Mr. Weasley put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Harry, this is us. Chin up, lad, and a deep breath. You'll be fine,” he said softly. Harry glanced over at him, wild-eyed, but let himself be steered out into the grotty, well-worn corridor. Directly in front of them was a door with the plaque 'Courtroom 10', while signs on the walls pointed to 'Courtrooms 1 — 9' to the left and 'Waiting Area' to the right.

A short distance down the corridor, they came to a doorway with a cashier's window immediately next to it. Behind the window, a skinny, elderly woman with unnaturally bright eyes and a too-wide mouth stared impassively out at them.

“Good morning, this is Harry Potter. He's here for a disciplinary hearing.” Mr. Weasley said nervously.

The woman blinked, and looked down at her desk, running a thick, yellow-nailed finger down a list. “Potter… Underage Magic. Your wand, Mr. Potter,” she said in a harsh voice, jabbing her finger at a little tray that ran lengthways under the window.

With great reluctance, he placed his wand into the tray, and there was a sharp _snick!_ as the tray flicked over to the other side of the glass. The woman held up his wand, “I keep this for now. If you come out this way, it will be returned to you. If not… it will be held until it is passed on to your place of detention.”

“Harry… Harry, I'm really sorry, but I think this is where I have to leave you,” Mr. Weasley said apologetically. “If it wasn't for that damn toilet I'd-”

“It's OK, Mr. Weasley. And thanks. Ginny, last chance to change your mind?”

She said nothing, but gave him a defiant, challenging look and dropped her wand into the little tray.

“And you are?” the woman asked.

“A friend,” Ginny said coolly, meeting the old woman's gaze without flinching.

“You get this back when you come out,” the woman grated, unmoved. “Visitors are not permitted to attend the trials of young offenders.”

Ginny nodded, and gave her father a quick hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

Mr. Weasley kissed her cheek, then shook Harry's hand. “I just want to tell you both, 'Good luck'. We're all counting on you. When you're finished come back up to my office. If you get lost, someone will guide you; just look for the Auror Headquarters and you'll be fine.”

“Thanks. Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “You'd better get going.”

“Yes. Yes, right...” he hurried off, casting an apologetic look back at them as the elevator doors slid open, and then he was gone. They were alone.

Harry faced the doorway in front of them and blew out a shuddering breath. It was a narrow corridor with a heavy, iron-banded door at the other end; an interlock. Ginny put her hand on his arm and he looked over at her; even she looked pale.

“Nervous?”

Harry's head jerked up, and he realised that the old woman was staring intently at them, a malicious smile on her face. “Yes,” he said shortly, immediately turning back to the door and steeling himself to walk forward. _Ginny must think I'm a complete wuss..._

“First time?” The woman's predatory smile had widened, and Harry turned an acid glare on her.

“No, I've been nervous lots of times.”

An ugly look swept across the woman's face and for a second she _flickered_. “Sit! And wait!” she hissed, in a voice that sounded far too metallic to be human, pointing into the room behind her with a trembling arm. Unnerved, Harry and Ginny both scrambled into the interlock and, with a whoosh and a hum, the door slid shut behind them. Seconds later — just long enough for Harry to think they were trapped — the door in front opened and they could step out again.

The room was long and relatively narrow, lined with high-backed, U-shaped benches with heavily-constructed tables in the middle. About half of the booths contained a pair of witches or wizards — one in varying degrees of dishevelment, the other in dress robes and clutching sheaves of paper with briefcases open beside them. Lawyers, presumably, waiting with their clients. There was a low growl behind them, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see a hulking troll in studded black leather glaring stupidly at them. The shock propelled him down to the end of the room and into an empty booth, Ginny nearly tripping over his heels.

“Nice place. Love what they've done with it,” Harry said sarcastically as they sat down, trying to stop the shivers running down the back of his neck.

“Lovely, isn't it?” Ginny gulped, “That woman out the front — is it just me, or-”

“It wasn't just you,” Harry said hurriedly, trying not to shudder.

“Yeesh! A ghoul, then, maybe. Something like that.”

“You can ask her, if you like?”

Ginny flashed him a smile, “You first!”

He found himself smiling at her, then the smile faltered as he realised where they were. And why. “So… what now?”

“Now, I guess we wait. You know what to do and say, Harry, we've been through all this and I know you won't have forgotten anything.” She looked at him in silence for a few moments before adding, “Talking it over and over right now is only going to make you nervous, isn't it?”

He let out a shaky laugh, “Yeah, it probably is.” A rumpled figure in the opposite corner of the room caught his eye, slumped down in a booth opposite a stern witch in dress robes. “Hey, isn't that Mundungus Fletcher?” he he asked in a low voice.

Ginny didn't move at first, then casually turned as if taking in the room again. “Yeah, it looks like him,” she said in a half-whisper. “Did you know he was going to be here today?”

“No. I don't think it's a huge surprise, though, judging by what he was doing when he was supposed to be guarding me in the first place. None of this would have happened if he'd just done his job!”

“Quietly, Harry!” Ginny hissed, her eyes darting around the room, but no-one was paying them any attention.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Still, we're not supposed to know him, are we?”

She gave him a reassuring smile, “Then I guess we should probably talk about something else. What did you make of Auror Headquarters? Not exactly a vision of a pulsing, high-tech crime-fighting nerve-centre, is it?”

Somehow, he found himself smiling back at her. “I guess even the Aurors have to do their paperwork sometime.”

They talked about Quidditch, and school, and the antics of the twins, and Hermione and Ron, watching the time slowly tick away on the clock over the door where they'd come in. Nine thirty, when his hearing was originally scheduled to begin, came and went, and so did ten, and the nerves were really sinking in in earnest. Finally, he broached a subject that had been bothering him since they'd arrived.

“Something that bothers me is that I don't have a lawyer. I mean, no-one could have expected I'd need one — but if this is a full court trial, then surely I should have some sort of representation? How is this fair, otherwise?”

Ginny bit her lip. “Professor Dumbledore knows about your hearing though, doesn't he? It's probably going to be him.”

“Yeah, maybe. But then again, he's hardly bothered to even talk to me so far this summer. I dunno, Ginny, maybe I'm just worrying too much,” he said unconvincingly.

She smirked at him, “You always worry too much about everything!” Her amusement faded, and she added earnestly, “Look, even if it isn't Dumbledore, they have to provide you with someone who knows what they're doing. Don't worry, Harry, you know your stuff, and as long as you have a halfway-competent defence counsel, you'll be fine.”

The narrow door at the end of the room opened, drawing the eye of everyone in the room, and a black-cloaked figure swept in. His silver-topped cane rapped on the worn cobbles as he walked, and the hood was thrown back to reveal the pinched face and long blond hair of Lucius Malfoy. A horrible feeling settled over Harry as he saw the man lock eyes with him and smile.

“Oh, bugger me! What the hell did I do in a previous life to deserve this?” he moaned.

He hear a feral hiss from beside him and had to grab Ginny's arm to stop her jumping to her feet. Of course — it was Lucius Malfoy that had slipped Tom Riddle's diary into her books before her first year, leading to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and months of utter hell for the girl.

“Steady now, Ginny. Don't give the bastard the satisfaction.”

She gave him a glare which should have melted steel. “Satisfaction? I'll be satisfied when I've hexed him six ways to Sunday!” she snarled.

“Ah, Mr. Potter. How nice to meet you, even if it is under these trying circumstances.” Malfoy drawled, wearing a grin of pure predatory pleasure. His eyes flashed sideways. “And you've brought a little playmate to keep you company,” he continued in a patronising tone. “A Weasley, it seems. My word, there's a lot of you!”

“Sod off and die, Death Eater!” Ginny spat derisively, her bright brown eyes flashing.

Malfoy reared back in mock-horror. “That's no way to talk to your friend's defence counsel! Why, I might get all flustered and then who _knows_ what might happen.”

“No. Way,” Harry said flatly.

“How much did you pay for this chance, Death Eater?” Ginny asked loudly. The other sounds in the room stopped and many eyes turned to look their way. Malfoy's bonhomie almost slipped for a second, but he maintained the genial smile until most of the room's occupants had returned to what they were doing.

“Be very careful, you carrot-topped brat, or who knows what might turn up should the Ministry decide to search your little hovel for more links to the Dark Lord,” Malfoy hissed at her quietly. “Come, Mr. Potter, it's time for your hearing,” he added in a carrying voice.

“Not a bloody chance!” exclaimed Harry, leaping to his feet and looking for some sort of assistance.

Malfoy's smile widened and he leaned closer. “Either you come with me now, or I can have my friend Lurg the Troll over there drag you by the heels in chains into the court. Your choice.”

Harry cast about for a minute, then swore loudly. Ignoring Malfoy, he turned to Ginny and put both hands on her shoulders. “Ginny? Ginny! Contact your dad, let him know. I can't think of anything else we can do.”

After a moment, Ginny tore her eyes off Malfoy and met Harry's.

“Good luck, Harry,” she said in a perfectly calm voice. “Remember what we talked about, and don't let them fluster you,” For a moment, it looked like she was going to say more, but she clamped her mouth shut and resumed trying to burn Malfoy to cinders with her eyes.

Reluctantly, he gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze — reassuring for him or for her, he wasn't quite sure — and fell in with Malfoy. Nearing the doorway, he stopped dead and whirled on the man when he tried to place a paternalistic hand on his shoulder.

“Don't touch me, Death Eater!” he said coldly, taking a leaf out of Ginny's book.

“Oh, I'm going to enjoy this,” said Malfoy softly, his drawl almost a purr of anticipation. “Shall we? Or do I need to fetch Lurg?”

Without a word, Harry turned his back on the man and set out into the corridor.

=====// \\\=====

  



	5. The Trial of the Century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will likely make very little sense to anyone :-)

  


=====// \\\=====

As Harry stepped into the courtroom, his feet faltered. He had expected a fairly ordinary chamber, maybe with a panel of three or four wizards sitting in judgement. Instead what he saw was horribly familiar; he had seen this place last year, in Dumbledore's Pensieve. This was the room where the Lestranges had been sentenced to life in Azkaban.

The dim light offered by the burning torches on the walls showed a vast, horseshoe-shaped hall with high, empty galleries of seating around the sides facing a grand dais of aged and polished stone. Witches and Wizards were arrayed along the three levels of the dais, all clad in plum-coloured robes with a silver “W” embroidered over their hearts, craning their necks to look down at him. The rumble of their voices ceased as he entered, leaving the boom of the heavy iron-bound door closing to echo ominously around the chamber in the sudden silence.

In pride of place on the dais was Cornelius Fudge, easily recognised with his lime green bowler hat. A squat, middle-aged woman with a broad, flabby face and wide mouth sat at his right hand, and Amelia Bones sat on the other side. In front of them and on the lowest level, to Harry's shock, was Percy Weasley, looking extremely pleased with himself. Any hope of help from that quarter died at the smug, supercilious look on his face.

He got a shove from behind by Malfoy which brought him back to the present. In front of him at ground level was an unvarnished, heavily-constructed wooden chair, almost a throne. Harry swallowed. He had seen the chains on that chair bind a screaming Barty Crouch, and the height of the galleries and dais gave the impression of being trapped in a pit. With great reluctance, he walked forward and gingerly lowered himself into the chair.

There was a sharp rattle and heavy iron manacles shot out, clamping themselves around Harry's wrists. With a shout of panic, he tried to rise only for another chain to snake its way around his middle and yank him cruelly back into the chair. He felt more manacles seize his ankles and drag his flailing legs back until they were hard up against the legs of the chair. Beneath his terror, Harry could only wonder what he had done to be treated the same as the most violent and dangerous prisoners the Wizarding world had to offer.

Gradually, he realised that his struggles were having absolutely no effect and forced himself to stop, his pulse racing and his clothes already clammy from the sudden sweat. Looking around, he could see curious faces peering down at him, their voices combined in an excited murmur. Lucius Malfoy had joined the dais at the front at the opposite end to a sick-looking Percy, and looked on with obvious amusement at his distress. Amelia Bones looked absolutely livid, hissing furiously into Fudge's ear. The squat woman to Fudge's right was looking at him like he was some sort of curious insect to be either squashed or pinned to a board as a specimen, and gradually Harry realised that she was speaking to him.

“Harry James Potter?”

Harry swallowed and tried to get his breathing under control. “Wh-what?”

“You are Harry James Potter?”

“Uh... yes?”

“Then we can begin. Minister, if you would be so kind?”

“Why, thank you, Dolores,” he preened, before his voice turned stern, ringing across the room. “This court shall come to order! The matter of _Regina v Potter_ is now in session.

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley.

“Defendant: Harry James Potter. Counsel for the defence, Lucius Apollo Malfoy.”

“Oh, _hell_ no!” Harry exclaimed.

“What? What is the meaning of this outburst, Mr. Potter?” asked the frog-faced woman, Umbridge, in a high-pitched, almost girlish voice.

“I'm not having him for a lawyer!” Harry exclaimed adamantly.

Madam Bones, who had been sitting with a thunderous expression since Fudge waved away her protests, looked strangely amused at his outburst. “And why's that?” she asked in a booming voice, adjusting her monocle.

“Because he's a bloody crook and a Death Eater, and I wouldn't trust him to sit the right way on a lavatory!”

A buzz of voices broke out from the Wizengamot, mostly disapproving although Harry did hear some laughter from the back. Finally, Fudge, his face puce with anger, held his wand to his throat.

“Order! Order in the court! Mr. Potter, you shall apologise to Mr. Malfoy this instant!”

“No chance,” said Harry flatly.

Malfoy rose languidly from his seat. “Minister Fudge, it is quite well-known that Mr. Potter allows his... flights of fancy to get the better of him. I shall attempt to prevent his more outrageous outbursts but I beg the court's indulgence.”

“Do you deny that you are a Death Eater, Mr. Malfoy?” Harry said loudly, cutting across Fudge. “Then you will have no problem revealing your left forearm to prove it?”

Harry saw a brief look of hatred flash across Malfoy's face as an excited rumble of whispers broke out around the court, leaving Fudge to again call them to order. “Mr. Potter! If you cannot refrain from these ridiculous slanders, I shall have you silenced! Let the court record that Mr. Malfoy is appointed defence counsel and let us be done with this!”

“No. I refuse,” said Harry loudly. “I shall represent myself.”

“That is not permitted, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge. “Being under-age, you must be represented by a suitably-qualified adult,” she gave a false, insincere titter. “As you have neglected to approach such a person to act for you, the court has appointed one.”

“That was, however, quite unnecessary, as he already has one. Counsel for the Defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” came a quiet but carrying voice from behind him. Harry's head whipped around to see the tall figure of the headmaster stride into the court. Harry got a gracious nod of greeting while Fudge and Umbridge conversed in furious whispers above him.

Dumbledore waited politely at the foot of the dais while a furious-looking Malfoy slunk out before taking his place. As Dumbledore turned to sit he stopped dead and then drew himself up to his full height. Suddenly, Harry felt the air around him crackle with power, and his hair whipped in a non-existent breeze.

“Minister Fudge, you will remove those manacles from the defendant this instant!” thundered Dumbledore menacingly.

“Standard procedure, Dumbledore,” Fudge squeaked, looking terrified.

“The boy is under-age, Minister, and this is not a capital offence! I repeat, and for the last time; remove those chains immediately or I shall consider it a matter of my _personal_ honour! Do you understand me, Minister?”

Harry felt like cheering despite the display of raw, implacable power from the old man as Fudge floundered for a moment before waving his wand. The manacles popped open and the chains coiled themselves like snakes. Rubbing his wrists in relief, Harry couldn't but think that the chains remained poised to strike and drag him back again. It was a distinctly unnerving thought.

Dumbledore strode down to stand beside him. “Are you quite all right, Harry?” he asked in a soft voice, although not quite looking directly at him.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” said Harry automatically, still thinking of the chains.

Dumbledore hesitated for a minute before saying, “Good lad. Focus, Harry, and think swiftly.” He turned and raised his voice to address the court. “This day shall forever remain a truly black mark on the honour of the Wizengamot and the Ministry; that an under-age boy is not only given a full trial over a trivial matter, but that the court saw fit to fetter him in chains. I hold all those present complicit as none seemingly had the courage to object.”

Looking around, Harry saw a few angry faces, but most looked suitably ashamed.

Dumbledore continued. “Now, to continue with the business of the court, I offer myself as counsel to the defence.”

“And I accept,” added Harry quickly.

“Very well! Weasley, record Dumbledore as counsel, will you?” Fudge snapped ungraciously, looking flustered. Rather than return to the dais, Dumbledore pulled out his wand and conjured a comfortable-looking armchair right next to Harry, who was inexpressibly grateful for the obvious show of solidarity.

“Yes of course, Minister.” Percy scribbled industriously for a minute, then stopped and looked up as if something had just occurred to him. “_Brian_?”

“Why, yes,” said Dumbledore politely.

“Oh. Ah. Yes. Err, Brian — how do you spell it?” asked Percy, writhing in mortification as he desperately tried to cover up his obvious _faux pas_.

Dumbledore complied, and Percy made great show of writing it down. Dumbledore cleared his throat and looked over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Percy, who was by this stage starting to sweat, Harry noticed with glee.

“Perhaps this would be an opportune moment to remind you, Mr. Weasley, that not only do I possess sufficient raw magical power to strip your body to its component molecules and scatter them unto the four winds, but that I also know your mother?”

“How dare you threaten my Undersecretary in this court, Dumbledore!” blustered Fudge.

“Threaten? Of course not, Minister. I merely thought it an opportune time to remind Mr. Weasley to write to his dear mother,” said Dumbledore mildly. “Do pass on my regards, Mr. Weasley, won't you?”

“Of course, Professor.” Percy squeaked, thoroughly cowed.

“Entertaining as this is, Dumbledore, perhaps we should proceed with the matter at hand? _Regina v Potter_,” said Madam Bones. Harry got the distinct impression that she was thoroughly enjoying Dumbledore's interruption of the Minister's schemes. Perhaps he had an ally?

“Quite, Madam Bones,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “Do being, I beg you.”

Fudge cleared his throat again noisily. “Harry James Potter, of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, you are accused of violating Paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy, in that you did knowingly, deliberately and in full awareness of the illegality of your actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on the second of August at twenty-three minutes past nine. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, Minister,” Harry replied, trying not to let his voice waver. _Impressions_, Ginny had drummed into him. _Don't let them think you have anything to hide, don't let them think you're afraid_.

“We shall see. We shall see, indeed. You received an official warning from the Ministry for performing under-age magic three years ago, did you not?”

Harry looked at Dumbledore, who nodded. “Yes, Minister-”

“And-” Fudge continued, but Harry overrode him. _Don't let them rail-road you, Harry, think about what you're saying but make sure you get the chance to say it_.

“However, first I was expelled without receiving a warning, in contravention of of Paragraph K, subsection 2, of the Decree. It was only after the intervention of Professor Dumbledore that I received a written warning.”

“A minor clerical error,” Fudge waved a hand in dismissal.

“A minor clerical error with a potentially devastating and unlawful impact,” Dumbledore noted.

“An error corrected, nonetheless. You confirm that you received a warning, yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August, knowing full well that you are not permitted to perform magic outside school until you turn seventeen?”

“Yes, but-”

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles and in close proximity to a Muggle?” Fudge's voice rose accusingly.

“Y-” Harry stopped himself and took a breath. _Don't give them a chance to take your first answer. Think, and give a full reply_. “My cousin and I were attacked by a pair of Dementors in a narrow alleyway. There was no means of escape, and given that it was night and we were largely shielded from view I produced a Patronus to save our lives.”

Madam Bones' eyebrows shot up, her monocle falling free to swing on its chain. “Dementors? Running free in a Muggle area? I don't understand-”

“Don't you, Amelia?” Fudge chuckled nastily, “I think it's obvious that the boy has had plenty of time to cook up some sort of cover story. Is that really the best that you can do, Mr. Potter? Dementors, I ask you!”

Madam Bones gave Harry a searching look. “Was it a corporeal Patronus, Mr. Potter?”

“A- a what?” asked Harry.

“Fully formed. It had a defined shape, not just vapour or mist?”

“Yes, Madam Bones. It's a stag, it's always been a stag.” Harry tried to sound as respectful as possible. It almost sounded like she believed him.

“Always?” boomed Madam Bones. “You have produced a Patronus before?”

“I’ve been able to do so for over a year,” said Harry. Briefly, he wondered if that sounded like boasting, but too late now.

“And you are fifteen years old? I don't remember learning this at school, Albus, not unless you have radically altered the third-year curriculum?”

“Professor Lupin was permitted to instruct Mr. Potter during his third year, because of the Dementors stationed around Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at him, “A true Patronus at his age… very impressive indeed.”

Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” said Fudge in a testy voice, “In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!”

“If I may, Minister, my cousin is excluded from the Statute of Secrecy on the grounds of family relationship,” said Harry carefully. He dreaded this part, the risk of sounding like a smart-arse. He had seen how well that went down with adults when Hermione did it.

“Cousin is not considered a close enough relationship under the Statute, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge sweetly.

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, surprised, and rose. “In this particular case, Dolores, the Statute may be extended by guardianship. Mr. Potter lives with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, and all three are privy to the Secret. In fact, his aunt has been familiar for more than thirty years as her sister, Lily Evans, was a witch.”

“Nevertheless, this was in an area full of Muggles,” said Fudge, trying to recover the initiative.

“The alleyway was not overlooked by houses, and it was dark, Minister,” Harry repeated.

“Do you have any evidence that a Muggle other than one already privy to the Secret saw anything at all, even just a glow?” Dumbledore asked. “No reports from the Obliviators? I'm assuming that Obliviators were sent to make enquiries?”

Fudge and Umbridge conversed in angry whispers for a moment. “Not as such,” Fudge eventually admitted, each word sounding like it was dragged out of him.

Amelia Bones cleared her throat. “That all sounds clear enough to me, Dumbledore. I move for the second charge to be dismissed. All in favour?”

His heart in his mouth, Harry quickly counted the glowing wands. Ten, twenty... more than half! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Maybe this would work after all! He would have to buy Ginny the biggest box of chocolate frogs in the world if he got off! And Hermione, and Ron, too!

“Well then, the charge of breaching Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy is dismissed!” boomed Madam Bones.

“However the charge of violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery stands, and the boy admits performing the charm,” said Fudge sourly.

Harry thought for a minute. He really, really didn't want to quote chapter and verse at them, but-

“The use of magic is permitted under Clause 7 where there is a clear threat to the life of the under-age wizard, Minister.”

_Yes_! Harry's eyes darted over to a thin, balding man with a hawk-like nose who was looking at Harry pensively.

“Perhaps so, Apernicus, perhaps so, but alternatively there is no evidence that the so-called Dementors ever existed outside the mind of Mr. Potter,” said Fudge.

“My cousin was present, Minister-” Harry began.

“But Muggles can't see Dementors, can they? How very convenient for you,” Fudge smirked, “So if it's merely your word alone and no witnesses...”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, “In fact, there was another witness to this event. Other than Dudley Dursley, of course.”

The smirk drained off Fudge's face for a moment, before he pulled himself together. “Who is this witness, Dumbledore?”

“Arabella Figg. She lives close to Mr. Potter.”

Umbridge leaned over to Fudge and whispered in his ear for a moment. “I don't believe I have heard of your Mrs. Figg, Albus, and we have Little Whinging closely monitored given... past events. Surely a witch living in such a Muggle area would have registered with the Ministry?” said Umbridge.

Dumbledore coughed. “Alas, Mrs. Figg is a squib. However-”

“I don't know if squibs can even see Dementors, Dumbledore,” said Fudge smugly, looking along the benches for support. “And in any case, her evidence may not be allowed.”

“Really, Cornelius? On what grounds?” asked Dumbeldore dangerously.

“Oh come, now, Dumbledore, she's a squib! She lacks any credibility in describing magical matters of which she has no experience or understanding. As such, under last month's emergency amendments her evidence is only admitted at the discretion of the court and I see no compelling argument that her evidence may be relied on. The witness is excused!”

“Minister, this is highly irregular!” Dumbledore protested.

“Nevertheless, Dumbledore, that is the law! Now unless you can provide any _magical_ witnesses we must proceed to closing arguments,” said Umbridge cuttingly, a look of delight on her face.

“In that case, I request an adjournment so I may consult with Mr. Potter.”

“Denied. If you have evidence, Professor Dumbledore, then present it. Otherwise the case will continue,” Umbridge said in a saccharine voice laced with insincere regret.

There were a few stifled laughs in the gallery, and much to Harry's discomfort, for once Dumbledore looked at a loss for words. He decided to seize the chance before they condemned him out of hand.

“There was another witness,” he said clearly. “I saw him in the waiting room, just before the trial. Someone told me his name is Fletcher.”

“Another witness, you say? Here today?” Amelia Bones leaned forward, “A Ministry employee?”

“Err... not as such. He had shackles on,” Harry admitted uncomfortably. This time the laughter was louder.

Amelia Bones adjusted her monocle and glared around the courtroom. “Very well, we will see if we can find your mysterious Mr. Fletcher. The court will adjourn for ten minutes, but if you are having us on, Mr. Potter, it will go badly for you.”

Harry swallowed, and there was a general movement on the benches as the various witches and wizards made themselves comfortable. Dumbledore leaned close.

“Harry, are you sure this is wise? Mundungus Fletcher may not be relied on to look out for any interest but his own.”

“With all due respect, Professor, I didn't see you with any bright ideas. I had to do something!” Harry hissed back.

Dumbledore gave him a considering look. “Very well, Harry, we shall see how this plays out. Lemon drop?”

Harry declined.

Just as the deadline was about to expire, the heavy door swung open and a dirty, rumpled-looking figure in stained robes shuffled in escorted by a burly guard, manacles clanking loudly. Harry felt a sudden stab of uncertainty. If this was his only remaining hope, he was surely doomed. He shook himself; he and Ginny had planned for this, but only as a bare outline of an absolute last resort. They would need to play it very carefully indeed.

“'Ere now, geezer, Courtroom 10? You ain't said nuffink 'bout this! I'm up infronna the beak, I knows that, but I ain't done nuffink proper naughty, like!” the figure protested loudly to his guard.

Madam Bones glanced at a piece of parchment handed to her. “Are you Mundungus Fletcher?” she asked severely, before handing it to Fudge.

“Could be, darlin', could be, but that depends on who's asking, innit?” said Mundungus, offering a gap-toothed smile.

Fudge sighed. “Oh dear. I think we shall need an interpreter. Do we have anyone here who speaks Cockney?”

After a moment there was a slight disturbance in the upper tiers as an ancient, stooped witch carefully shuffled down to the front. “Excuse me, Minister, but I speak Cockney and also Jive,” she said in a reedy voice.

“Hey now, big mamma, you hip to ma homie's jive?” piped up Umbridge in her falsely-sweet voice.

“Pray to J I be, sugar, I can rap to dis cat all night, you know wha' I'm sayin'? Damn straight!” the ancient witch answered in a jaunty tone.

Fudge was looking at Umbridge like she'd grown another head, “I didn't know you spoke Jive, Dolores?”

Umbridge giggled girlishly. “Oh yes, Minister. I picked some up on a trip to America nearly thirty years ago. It was wonderful — new music, new magic, free love...”

There was a collective shudder in the courtroom. Somehow, Umbridge seemed to think she was still some sort of coquettish teenager. It was more than a little disturbing.

“And, no doubt, many, many mind-altering substances,” Dumbledore added serenely.

Harry wasn't the only one who had to turn his laughter into a hurried cough when he saw the murderous look which crossed Umbridge's broad face.

“Well, I think your translator has proved her skills. Shall we proceed, Madam Bones?” Dumbledore continued smoothly. He conjured a leather-topped desk and pair of chairs in the corner for Mundungus and the translator.

“If you would join Mr. Fletcher, Madam Doyle?” asked Amelia Bones.

“How do we proceed, Harry?” asked Dumbledore quietly as the old witch made her way down to the witness table.

“Carefully, I think,” said Harry. He had no time to say more, as Madam Bones adjusted her monocle before continuing.

“Mundungus Norman Stanley Fletcher, currently of 71 Carshalton Road, Mitcham, Surrey?”

“That's me, guv,” said Fletcher, trying to inject a winning note into his gravelly voice.

“What is your occupation?”

Mundungus smiled greasily. “Bit o' this, bit o' that. Anyfing that'll turn some bread. I'm what you might call an entray-pray-newer.”

“Mr. Fletcher is variously employed in several trades,” said Madam Doyle.

“Not all of them completely honest, I see,” boomed Amelia Bones. “Fifteen previous convictions?”

“Yeah, I done a bit o' bird. Fallen in wiv the wrong types, know what I mean?” Mundungus admitted, still trying for the innocent look.

“Mr Fletcher has on occasion been led astray by his companions,” translated Madam Doyle.

“Very easily led, it seems, and quite frequently, too,” said Madam Bones. “Five terms in Azkaban ranging from one week to two months, and,” she paused, her lips moving silently for a second, “A total of 748 further offences taken into account?”

There was quiet laughter from the rest of the court as Mundungus wriggled uncomfortably. “Man's gotta make a living, darlin'”

“Obviously not a good one, as you are due in Courtroom 4 later.”

This time Mundungus said nothing, and the laughter was slightly louder.

“What is your relationship with the accused?” demanded Fudge impatiently.

“'hoo?”

“Harry Potter! What is your relationship with Harry Potter!” Fudge demanded, pointing. Mundungus looked at him and jumped.

“Bloody 'ell, _'Arry Potter_?” he exclaimed. “What are you mad beggars doing, fittin' him up? Short of 'im knockin' someone off, you should be lettin' 'im go an' shaking 'is 'and onna way out!”

“Mr. Fletcher is very surprised to see Mr. Potter in front of the courts,” said Madam Doyle.

“Not half as much as he is, I'll be bound,” sniped Fudge. Umbridge let out a high, girlish laugh, but no-one else joined in. “What is your relationship with Mr. Potter?”

“Never met 'im, guv'nor. Mundungus Fletcher, Mr. Potter, it's a great honour!” he introduced himself.

Harry gave him a wan smile and a half-wave. “Hi.”

“So, we've established that Mr. Fletcher is a thief and a criminal. Your witness is losing credibility by the second, boy!”

“Mundungus Fletcher is not on trial here, and his background is neither here nor there,” said Dumbledore, intervening in a calming tone.

“Perhaps we should hear his evidence before we get carried away with arguing over how much credibility we assign to it?” suggested Amelia Bones.

Fudge chewed his lip for a moment. “Very well, Amelia. Mr. Fletcher, what were you doing in Little Whinging on the night of the second of August?”

Mundungus stretched out, making himself comfortable. “Well now, I 'ad a whisper from a diamond geezer that 'e could put me inna way of an opportunity. Second-'and cauldrons, maybe some ovver scrap. Venue was 'is choice, take it or leave it, and 'e dun't say where.”

Fudge and Umbridge exchanged a look. “Madam Doyle?”

“Mr. Fletcher was informed that a reputable gentleman had a business proposition for him. That gentleman chose the place to meet but didn't inform Mr. Fletcher of its location.”

“Then how did he know where to go?”

“Met me old china dahn the Squeaky, didn't I? Apparate in wiv me, apparate out wivout me, earned 'im a pony an' no questions asked,” Mundungus rumbled.

“A mutual acquaintance met Mr. Fletcher at the Leaky Cauldron and took him to the meeting point for a small fee. He then departed immediately,” came Madam Doyle's reedy voice.

“I see, I see. So you had no idea where you were?” said Fudge.

“Somewhere Muggle, all quiet-like. Found meself be'ind some bins in an alley. Geezer was waitin' for me.”

“And who was this man?” asked Madam Bones, looking interested.

“Can't say, darlin'. That sort o' fing's bad for me 'elf.”

“Bad for your elf?” barked Fudge dismissively. “Great Merlin, if such as you has a house elf I suggest you give it a damn good thrashing as it's obviously not doing its job!”

There was scattered laughter from the bench, but Mundungus angrily slammed a hand down on the tabletop.

“My 'elf! You bunch o' hampton's ain't got a pot o' glue! You mess around wiv these geezers an' if you don't end up brown bread you've queered your pitch elsewhere. Word gets around you're a grass an' business dries up quicker 'n a raindrop in the Gobi!”

“Mr. Fletcher is concerned for his well-being if he answers that question. It may also affect his business contacts.”

Harry was guessing that Madam Doyle had paraphrased quite heavily. Mundungus was still seething angrily.

“It might help your defence later today if you agree to co-operate,” Fudge tried again. Mundungus snorted derisively.

“You 'aving a bubble, guv'nor? You fink I'm some sort of double-yolker? Oh yeah, good ol' Mundungus, fick as two short planks! Well if I start grassin' the only ones 'aving a giraffe will be the boys down the battle-cruiser after they filled me in dahn Streatham Park!”

“Mr. Fletcher is not being humorous when he suggests that his well-being is at stake.”

“Fackabaht! I asks you!” Mundungus added vehemently.

“Golly!” said Madam Doyle.

_That's not the half of it_, thought Harry.

“So, Mr. Fletcher, you met your acquaintance in an alleyway, and then what happened?” asked Dumbledore.

“Followed 'im dahn the frog 'n toad where he had one o' them big Muggle contraptions parked, great big metal box onna back wiv the gear in it. Said 'e wanted a dodgy octopus a piece, but 'e'd go as far as a Lady if I took the box it was in, an' all. Wanted a monkey for that, but eventually I got 'im dahn to a Desmond each for the gear and a carpet for the box. Shook 'ands, and we're done.” Mundungus explained.

“Mr. Fletcher followed the gentleman to a Muggle vehicle parked along the street. They conducted their business to their mutual satisfaction and agreed a deal,” said Madam Doyle. “The deal was conducted in Muggle currency.”

“I don't see any mention of Dementors in this little tale, thrilling as I'm sure it is,” said Fudge in a bored voice.

“Alright, guv, keep your 'air on! I shrink the box dahn and pocket it, climb out an' I start back for the alley to disapparate. I sees these two tin lids coming the ovver way and they went dahn the alley. Well, I hung back to let 'em go an' all o' a sudden, I started to feel cold. Got a right ol' chill, an' no wonder! There's this huge black fing floatin' along after 'em, and went right dahn the alleyway. I smelled that stink, you know the one?” Mundungus shuddered “Took me right back to doin' porridge on Azkaban!”

“Mr. Fletcher took his goods and returned to the alleyway so that he could leave out of sight of the Muggles. He saw two children enter the alleyway ahead of him, so waited for them to leave. It was then that he suddenly felt cold and noticed a large black shape following the two children. The cold and the peculiar smell reminded him strongly of spending time in prison,” said Madam Doyle.

“That certainly sounds like a Dementor,” Madam Bones agreed thoughtfully.

“Well, it weren't Queen o' the May, I can tell you that! 'Course it were a bloody Dementor!”

“So having seen this creature, Mr. Fletcher, what did you do?” asked Fudge wearily.

“You havin' a Turkish?” asked Mundungus in disbelief. “I 'ad it away on me toes, like any geezer wiv an ounce o' sense!”

“Mr. Fletcher left the area as fast as possible.” clarified Madam Doyle.

“I don't blame him. Dementors are not to be trifled with,” said Dumbledore seriously.

“What happened to your accomplice, Mr. Fletcher? Or rather, your fellow businessman?” asked Madam Bones.

Mundungus shrugged. “Went off in his Muggle fing, didn't 'e, soon as I got aht?”

“Are we quite finished with this... extraordinary... tale?” asked Fudge impatiently.

“I believe so. Mr. Fletcher has been very clear in his evidence,” said Dumbledore smoothly. “Unless you have anything you wish to ask, Harry?”

“No, Professor,” said Harry.

“Then thank you, Mr. Fletcher. No further questions.”

High above them, Fudge and Umbridge conferred for a moment. “Couldn't you have been mistaken, Mr. Fletcher?” asked Umbridge. She gave a false laugh. “After all, the chances of a Dementor happening through a Muggle neighbourhood are quite simply incredible.”

To his immense credit, Harry thought, Mundungus simply stared the woman down. “I know what I seen,” he ground out between his teeth, his gravelly voice even deeper than usual. “Once you spend time wiv them fings, you don't ever forget it. That feelin', that smell, you can tell 'em anywhere. I know 'zactly what I seen.”

“Mr. Fletcher is adamant that he is not mistaken.”

Amelia Bones gave him a long, searching look and then a curt nod. “Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Fletcher. That will be all.”

Harry could see pensive looks on the faces of the Wizengamot as Mundungus was led out by his burly guard and Madam Doyle returned to her perch high up on the dais. If anything, Harry thought that Mundungus' final words might have swung it — but that was assuming he was facing an impartial jury. With Lucius Malfoy hanging around, maybe he would need Sirius' escape plan after all.

Minister Fudge called them to order once more. “Now that's over with, do you have any other... imaginative... tales to spin us, Dumbledore?”

“Thank you, Cornelius, but I believe we've covered everything. Not only was Mr. Potter's use of magic fully justified in warding off two Dementors, it seems that it was unobserved by any Muggles not already privy to the Secret.”

“If you choose to put any faith in the words of that criminal layabout, perhaps,” Fudge snorted. “Decidedly unconvincing and far-fetched, I thought.”

“On the contrary, Cornelius, while I wouldn't buy any cauldrons from Mr. Fletcher I believe his account to be substantially true,” mused Amelia Bones. “Certainly his identification of the creature left no room for doubt.”

“Dementors just happening upon a wizard in the middle of a Muggle neighbourhood!” said Fudge scathingly. “What a load of utter poppycock!”

“Oh, I doubt they were there by accident, Minister,” said Dumbledore. There was a sudden, yawning silence throughout the courtroom.

Harry clamped a hand on Dumbeldore's wrist. “Not now!” he hissed at him. If he had any chance at all, getting into a slanging match over _how_ the Dementors got there would ruin it; the crux of the matter was if they could prove that they _were_ there.

“If someone sent a pair of Dementors to go strolling around Little Whinging I think we'd know about it!” barked Fudge, his face purpling.

“And yet, there they most certainly were,” said Dumbledore precisely. “However, as Mr. Potter points out to me, the question of exactly _why_ the Dementors were in Little Whinging is not the subject of this inquiry.”

“Perhaps not, Albus, but I shall be asking my Department for a full accounting of the movements of the Dementors over the last few weeks,” rumbled Madam Bones. “We cannot afford even the possibility of them running amok.”

“Unlikely, I feel,” snapped Fudge. “However, we have wasted enough time on this already. All those in favour of convicting the accused in the matter of violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?”

Harry could barely bring himself to look. Fudge's wand was burning brightly, obviously, and the woman Umbridge next to him. Perhaps half a dozen more... was that all?

Fudge left his words hanging in silence as he looked around the Wizengamot in vain for more support. Eventually, his face flushed, he forced out the words, “And against?”

Wands, dozens of them, more than half! Suddenly, Harry felt a huge weight lift off his chest and he took several huge breaths. Had it actually worked?

Up on the dais, Fudge looked in severe danger of a coronary. “Very well, cleared of all charges — this time,” he spat. “However I must warn you strongly regarding your future conduct, Mr. Potter. You have already received one warning for underage magic-”

Did he dare? Hell, why not? It wasn't like they could reverse their decision now. “For something that I didn't do, Minister.”

“_What_?!” Fudge's voice was enough to shatter glass. “Something you didn't do?! What balderdash is this now?”

Harry quailed internally, but managed to keep his voice steady and approximately respectful. “A house-elf came to my room, Minister. He tried to-”

“_A house-elf? A house-elf_?”

“It's a small sapient humanoid magical creature commonly indentured into servitude, but that's not important right now,” said Harry, belatedly realising that he probably ought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It was trying-”

“_I know what a house-elf is, you arrogant brat_!” Fudge raged. “But what in the name of Merlin would it be doing in a Muggle house? Do you really expect me to swallow this... this... _fantasy_-”

“Mr. Potter is quite correct, Minister,” Dumbledore interjected. “The house-elf in question is now in the employ of Hogwarts. I can summon him instantly should you wish to question him?”

Dumbledore raised one hand, its fingers poised to snap, but Fudge could only splutter incoherently. At his side, Madam Bones appeared to be doing her best not to laugh.

“Perhaps that is a matter for another time, Albus, although I should be interested in talking to your house-elf when I get a spare moment,” she said.

“He will be available at your convenience, Amelia,” said Dumbledore with a gracious nod.

“Mr. Potter; mind yourself in future. This court is dismissed!” she boomed.

With that, the Wizengamot all stood and began to gather up their papers, talking amongst themselves. Fudge had slumped back in his chair while Umbridge spoke to him and patted his hand. No-one was paying Harry the slightest bit of attention — which was just as well, as he tried to sort through his feelings of stunned relief.

Eventually, Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well, young Harry, I think you and Miss Weasley have done it. You're a free man! Shall we decamp to more salubrious surroundings? I don't know about you, but this place always gives me the willies!”

Harry blinked, and leapt out of the wooden chair as fast as he could, skittering a few paces away from it. The chains didn't move. Keeping a wary eye on them, he sidled out with Dumbledore, through the heavy iron-bound door and into the grotty passageway.

Harry mused that he'd never been so glad to see an elevator again in all his life. He could still scarcely believe it. Free! He had retrieved his beautiful wand from the miserable old bat guarding the waiting room, and he couldn't take his hands off it as they rode the elevator back up. It was his link to the Wizarding world, the key and symbol that he really belonged. It was a part of him he couldn't imagine being without.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when the elevator came to a halt, announcing the Atrium. Dumbledore turned to him with a smile, although Harry noticed that he still wouldn't look him in the eye. Why? Was it something he had done?

“Congratulations, Harry. Your gambit was well-played, and boldly, too. You will be all right returning to Arthur's office? I would accompany you, however, sadly, I must depart with haste. There's much for me to do today, and a Paul Oakenfold gig this evening that I wouldn't want to miss.”

Harry's eyebrows shot up. He had heard that name whilst listening in illicitly to the news, and it had provoked many rants from Uncle Vernon about drugged-up low-lifes and illegal raves. “Yes, Professor. But Professor... isn't Paul Oakenfold, well, a Trance music DJ?”

“Why, yes, Harry, and a superlative one at that.”

“But your Chocolate Frog card says you're into Chamber music!” he blurted.

Dumbledore gave him a grandfatherly smile. “You should know by now, young Harry, that not everything you read is of the strictest veracity. I do so enjoy getting out and about during the summer holidays to experience new things, and a few years ago my wanderings took me to the Hacienda club in Manchester. I had such a wonderful time that I've been returning regularly ever since. Although there does appear to be something slightly odd about their lemon drops...? Anyway, take care, my boy, and I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

With a friendly pat on the shoulder, the old man swept out. Harry watched him go, still gob-smacked, until the lift doors slid closed. A snort of amusement escaped him and gradually he broke down into gales of laughter. He couldn't help but think of his grandfatherly Headmaster completely off his face on smileys and moshing like a maniac with a glow-stick in each hand.

And perhaps those 'funny lemon drops' explained quite a bit about the last few years!

=====// \\\=====


	6. Epilogue

=====// \\\=====

Regurgitating toilets were a petty nuisance in the life of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, usually the work of some little twerp who needed a good clip around the ear more than anything, but on this occasion Arthur Weasley was decidedly angry as he wrote up his report. He looked over at Perkins' desk where his daughter sat chewing her lip and staring into space, having long since given up on trying to read or distract herself in other ways. Mess around with toilets all you like, but don't ever take Arthur away from his children when they needed him. Harry, too. Harry might not have been his, but Arthur still felt a strong duty to look after the boy. He had no-one else other than Sirius, and on this occasion he dreaded to think that he might have let him down.

He knew that Ginny and Harry had worked hard on preparing for the hearing. Molly hadn't been too pleased at them squirrelling themselves away each night but he had convinced her to leave them be. They were both good kids, and he was pleased by how it brought Ginny to life.

Like many young girls, Ginny had had a crush on the idea of Harry-the-Saviour when she was younger, but rather than grow out of it she had it strangled out of her during her first year at school. Arthur still didn't know all the details of what had happened to her during that time, but she had returned a crushed, very conflicted, and oddly knowing little girl that summer. It had taken quite some time for her to recover, and it was only now that he could see her starting to become more confident and outgoing as she had been when she was younger.

She had also started to become more confident around Harry. Having someone save your life and become your very own hero in the process had left her guilt-stricken and confused, but more recently they started to interact like any normal kids — well, mostly normal; both Ginny and Harry had some unique scars on their childhoods, literal and metaphorical.

He _had_ kept an eye on them from time to time, and he had been struck by how well they worked together. Ginny especially was good at getting through to Harry, more so than Ron and Hermione, but he'd also noticed that when Harry stopped to think about things he had a good read on Ginny, too. He grinned internally. If only Ron and Hermione could achieve a similar level of understanding, the whole house would be so much more peaceful!

He was startled by a cautious tap at his door, and he looked up to see Harry peering shyly around the door. The poor boy, he always looked like he was frightened of the reception he would get. Ginny shot to her feet, her heart in her eyes. Harry didn't say a word and Arthur couldn't bring himself to ask, but then Harry gave her a little smile and a huge grin spread slowly across her face. Suddenly, she launched herself at him and threw her arms around him, bouncing on the spot and laughing joyously. The poor boy, obviously not expecting such a reception and unused to that sort of contact (Damn those Dursleys!), froze for a second, and then wrapped his arms around her and joined in.

Arthur's own smile widened with relief and pride and a touch of wistfulness as he watched the laughing, bouncing teens. They had done it! Their hard work had paid off, despite the petty machinations of that idiot Fudge and his cronies. And they _did_ go well together. And while _that_ would probably come to nothing, like most teenagers as they grew up, he had a feeling that they had developed a solid friendship that would stand the test of time.

From what he had learned from the Order it seemed that Harry's life would only get more complicated and more dangerous in the coming years. As much as Arthur might wish otherwise, Harry was in for a hell of a tough time but he knew that Harry would have Ron and Hermione — and the twins, and probably the rest of the family — right alongside him when he faced it.

But he had a nagging suspicion that perhaps Ginny might be more important to him than any of them. His smile faded, and he whispered more to himself that anything,

“I just want to tell you both, 'Good luck'. We're all counting on you.”

=====// F I N I S \\\=====


End file.
